


The Wanderer

by vladnyrki



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-10-13
Updated: 2014-04-13
Packaged: 2017-11-16 06:10:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 23
Words: 30,697
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/536361
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/vladnyrki/pseuds/vladnyrki
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A series of vignettes inspired by the ghost grass passage in aDwD. Two lost souls struggle to keep their sanity in the middle of the Essos debacle and find solace in the strangest place. A story set in the same universe as Wild bear.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Hopeless wanderer

This is the first vignette in a collection set after ADWD or during the very last chapters, and pertaining to the same universe as Wild bear. I guess that, in the end, all those short fics may be considered as my own version of the resolution of the infamous Meereenese knot. This present vignette has been my answer to the challenge Tag!Your ship! on the gameofships community on LJ. The prompt was that extract of a song by the great Loreena McKennitt.  
  
As usual, this fic is betaed by MrsTater.

When the moon on a cloud cast night

Hung above the tree tops' height

You sang me of some distant past

That made my heart beat strong and fast

Now I know I'm home at last

-Loreena McKennitt, "Samhain Night"

  
  
First, Jorah had thought that his ears were playing tricks to his hazed, torn mind. Hearing about Daenerys' wedding had broken his mind and will when the slavers' beatings had only left superficial scars that would heal given time. However, the once Northern lord and knight, a paradox that had been his downfall, seriously started to wonder if there was any sanity left in him at all.  
  
From the depth of his cage, Jorah Mormont heard things that did not exist.  
  
Things that could not exist.  
  
A song that could not be sung under the walls of Meereen.  
  
In the dark of the night or under the burning sun, it kept sounding in the distance, so it seemed, when it was simply impossible. Yet, in spite of knowing this, he could not but help finding some solace in it. After all, it had been painful years since he had heard this sad, melancholic melody that characterized the Northern songs Lynesse had hated so much.  
  
It evoked the cold and the dark. It grieved for the dead. It lamented the disappearance of the sun. It reminded of the fear that was such a good companion for the people of Bear Island.  
  
It talked about the fear of the Great Winter that would transform the Bay of Ice into an endless frozen and sterile plain, fear of the growing darkness that would swallow everything, fear of the kraken, always looming under the sea.  
  
However, cold and darkness were not the end of everything as the song taught the children during the long winters.  
  
Spring always came back; you only needed to wait for it. The sea would move again and the trees would grow even stronger. The kraken would go back to its cavern. And the bear people would keep standing, winter after winter, and attack after attack.  
  
Jorah could still remember his mother's voice when she had sung it to him during his first long winter, a winter that saw a six-year-old boy enter the cave designed as a shelter against the icy winds and step out almost a man grown of eleven name days in the first days of spring.  
  
So, after a particularly vicious beating from the madman that called himself Nurse, Jorah decided that nostalgic comfort was worth the loss of the last remnants of his sanity. If this most ridiculous death under the walls of a strange city far from home was his destiny, he would embrace it clinging to his precious memories.  
  
And, for the first time in his years of exile, Jorah began to hum the notes he believed he heard in the distance. From this moment, the crushing blows became less and less painful; the cage was not a prison anymore. Days and nights came and went, and this made no difference to him. Finally, he even forgot his own bleeding body.  
  
Liberated from these needless attaches, his mind was free to wander at will. Other wargs must have been lurking under the walls of Meereen because the hawk accepted his presence with very little resistance. It had been a long time since he had last indulged in this secret pleasure. His father had always discouraged it and Lynesse had despised it. Only his aunt had helped him to nurture this rare quality. He had forgotten how exhilarating it was to see the earth from above, to contemplate human agitation as a man might consider an ant-hill. The rush of the hunt and the metallic taste of fresh blood and meat in his mouth made him salivate in his sleep. Only the regular beatings managed to bring him back, much to his displeasure.  
  
Why did not they kill him already?  
  
He had nothing left and would never his homeland again. Without Daenerys, he had no purpose left.  
  
Why did not they let him finish his days contemplating the earth from the sky?  
  
Soon, the Meereenese region became too small for him, and he ventured further and further away into the Dothraki Sea. The once endless green plain was turning into a dry, yellow sea. So, that was winter in Essos. He had always wondered about this during his exile. Was Westeros the only land afflicted by the bloody winter? Jorah had his answer now. The Skahazadhan lazily winded down the plane to Slavers' Bay, swelled by his numerous tributaries.  
  
Then a staggering silhouette attracted his attention along one these rivers, which was no more than a mere stream at this point. Her hair had been burnt partially but Jorah recognized the silver shade from above.  
  
Daenerys.  
  
One of the first rules his aunt had taught him when she had trained him during his second long winter had been that a warg should stay clear of vegetation, however tempting it was to plunge oneself into the depths of memories older than the gods themselves.  
  
Down on the earth, Daenerys fell to her knees in a whimper.  
  
In an instant, Jorah became the yellowing grass grazed by the wind.


	2. A friend in the distance

  
  
Day after day, the Khalasar progressed further and further into the Dothraki Sea, closer and closer to Vaes Dothrak, in a travel that mimicked her first and to this day only visit to the sacred city of her people in the most ironic and cruel way. So many things brought back forgotten memories, wanted or unwanted: the pungent smell of horse shit and men sweat, the rhythmic sound of hooves hitting the ground again and again, the scorched skin of her hands that had grown tender again after her time of leisure in the Great Pyramid of Meereen. Like before, unknown and respectful maids had been assigned to her. Like before, the purpose of this endless walk through the plain was to be presented to the Dosh Khaleen.  
  
Just like in the beginnings of her first travel, deep, irrepressible anguish was her daily companion.  
  
Yet, at the same time, it was only but a pale mummer's show of her first journey to the sacred city.  
  
Gone was her Sun and Stars, taken away not by a powerful enemy but by a mere festering injury.  
  
Gone was the Stallion that would mount the world, the little life that swelled her belly then.  
  
Gone was her brother, taken away by his own foolishness.  
  
Gone was her loyal companion who taught her so much about her people's ways, the one man whose mere presence reassured her, appeased her fears and made her feel stronger than she really was.  
  
A girl had left Pentos, and a hardened woman rode back to Vaes Dothrak. In the meantime, she had lost everything she had held dear, became the Mother of Dragons, then the Mother of Slaves, played at being the Harpy and lost everything once again but Drogon.  
  
In the distance, the rearing stone horses that announced the end of the journey appeared behind a curve of the sandy road.  
  
That was it.  
  
In a few hours, Daenerys would know wether she would become the first woman to head the greatest Khalasar ever seen or if she would be forced to unleash Drogon's fire on her late Sun and Stars' people to escape from the clutches of ancient tradition. Not for the first time, a nagging doubt threatened her resolve, glorious victory or bloody escape, triumph or fire and blood. Would she even be able to turn on the Dothraki? Would she even be able to unleash hell on human beings, men, women, children? It was one thing to fly high on her dragon's back, another to dine on his killings, and still another entirely to use the beast like a terrible weapon of war.  
  
Would such an act make her Aegon the Conqueror's great descendant or the Mad King's daughter?  
  
There would not be any turning back, and the hard decision was entirely hers to make. There would be no councilor to ignore, no good advice to follow or bad counsel to be deaf to. In Slavers' Bay, she had resisted her bear's advice more and more, deluding herself that she could not trust him anymore because of his blatant feelings for her, when in reality she was only impatient to be a queen. In Meereen, she thought she had gotten rid of a traitor when she had exiled the last man who still remembered her less than glorious first days as a khaleesi, the last man who still treated her as the inexperienced girl she was.  
  
A few surprise victories and dragons did not make a great queen. Only her bear knew that, and his lack of respect, his annoying familiarity had been the unconscious expression of his assessment of her behavior as a queen. For that, she had to punish him, to exile him if she wanted the rest of her army to respect her for her prowess as Mother of Dragons and Breaker of Chains. To be a queen in Meereen, she had needed to sacrifice her oldest friend and councilor.  
  
In vain.  
  
And, when she needed good, sound advice, there was nobody left who could give it. Her Meereeneses courtesans would be of no use here; and Ser Barristan as well, to be entirely honest. Her own dwindling khalasar was miles and miles away, and many among them were still prisoners of their ageless traditions. Daario had been her lover, her captain, and she did not need to have him by her side to know his own brand of advice.  
  
The now familiar sound of flapping wings distracted Daenerys from her somber musings as the khalasar rode through Vaes Dothrak's imposing and peculiar gates.  
  
In any other place, the two monumental rampant horses would have been accompanied by a paved road, heavy wooden doors and a defensive wall. Here, the horses stood alone, proud in the middle of the plain, indicating that the Dothraki city was not a capital in the traditional sense of the term but much more a sacred territory. Such disposition revealed these people's endless pride: the Dothraki were the feared aggressors, the horselords renowned in all Essos and beyond, why would they bother with walls to protect their cities? They were the ones who destroyed the cities they attacked and brought the remnants of the false gods to Vaes Dothrak.  
  
A shriek followed the flapping wings as the hawk landed on her shoulder, the very same way Drogon used to do when he was little more than a hatchling. Daenerys smiled at her new friend's strange sense of punctuality. The grey hawk had taken an incomprehensible liking to her, or, better said, in the horse meat she humored it with come nightfall. For two weeks now, the ritual had been the same: the bird flew from nowhere and reclaimed its food with authority, perching itself on her shoulder, puffing its white and grey chest, listening patiently to her senseless ramblings. Around her, the riders stared at her as if she were even madder than they believed she was. After all, she had asked a maegi to treat their fallen Khal in the past, and now, she talked in some strange language to a bird. Aerys the Second had been the Mad King for the Westerosi; she would probably be the Mad Khaleesi for the Dothraki.  
  
But it made no matter. Being able to speak in the Common Tongue, the way she had during her first journey with Ser Jorah was priceless. She talked and talked in the night, and the bird listened to her, shrieking in approval, caressing its head to her cheek. She knew all it wanted was more meat, but she chose to believe otherwise.  
  
Like this, it felt as if her bear was riding by her side.  
  
The city's fires were closer now. The decisive encounter with the Dosh Khaleen was near.  
  
"What should I do, my dear beggar?" she asked aloud, stroking the coverlet on the bird's chest.  
  
Westeros is your home. Not Vaes Dothrak, not Meereen. Westeros. The grass answered as it had reminded her weeks before.


	3. Maegi

Outside the Dosh Khaleen's round temple, the sudden screams of panic and clamors of desperate escape revealed that Drogon had made the decision for her, once more, just like in Meereen, in the most dreadful and terrible way.  
  
One instant, Daenerys was arguing vehemently with the honorable widows to justify her unforgivable transgression. How could the Mother of Dragons have returned sheepishly to Vaes Dothrak? Daenerys Stormborn was not any Khaleesi. How could have she followed the ones who had abandoned her Sun and Stars the moment he had shown a moment of weakness? She had had no other solution than to press on in the Red Waste and follow her own destiny.  
  
A few seconds later, the smell of fire and smoke preceded fearful shrieks.  
  
The eldest Dosh Khaleen who railed vehemently against the unfaithful and disrespectful khaleesi a few seconds earlier, spluttering in Daenerys' face from her toothless mouth, had been stunned into silence and was no more mobile than one of the statues of foreign gods the Dothraki took to their sacred city. The other Dosh Khaleen had gathered in the same place, in the smallest recess of the temple, as if this shelter of wood, dried mud and straw would be enough against a dragon's fire.  
  
"Maegi!" Khal Jhaqo exclaimed, reaching instinctively to the arakh that was not there. For once, Daenerys was grateful for the Dothraki's stubborn and somewhat crippling respect of tradition. "Maegi!" he repeated as he walked in her direction, intent of strangling her, or worse. His panicked eyes expressed nothing but pure hatred.  
  
Then they expressed nothing at all, and the once proud Khal Jhaqo, her Sun and Stars' former Ko, was on his knees, screaming in pain, protecting what was left of his eyes from the hawk's attack. Daenerys did not know how, but her dear beggar had managed to slip into the temple, maybe by the gap in the roof that served the purpose of a chimney. Maybe the panicked bird had thought that the building would be a convenient shelter against the raging fire outside? It made no sense at all. The hawk, any animal, should be fleeing far from the city, not locking itself in the Dosh Khaleen's temple.  
  
It made no matter. Daenerys took advantage of the distraction and ran outside to discover the hell Drogon had unleashed on Vaes Dothrak.  
  
Had the dark beast felt her growing anger, just like in Meereen?  
  
Were his actions the expression of her frustrations?  
  
Was she the one who had unconsciously caused such chaos?  
  
Daenerys scanned her surroundings frantically, searching for anything, a spear, a whip, a stick. Alas, there were no weapons in Vaes Dothrak; that was the rule. She ran to a still smoking cadaver to remove the belt, and to another one. A makeshift whip would have to do to force the beast to accept her authority once more. What had worked in Meereen should function in Vaes Dothrak, shouldn't it?  
  
Drogon had landed at last, looking for another victim on which to unleash his wrath.  
  
"Drogon!" she called and whipped his muzzle to attract his attention.  
  
Just like in Meereen, the smoking jaws and angry eyes turned to her, ready to engulf her in fire and smoke.  
  
"Drogon!"  
  
Daenerys raised her frail arm to hit once more when the beggar paused on her shoulder.  
  
Not the whip, never the whip. Just look at the beast in the eyes and never break contact. Never. Until it bows to your will.  
  
She kept her arm raised, ready to strike, but hesitating nonetheless. Should she ignore the voice or follow its advice? Was she afflicted with the taint, like her father and her brother?  
  
She stroke and Drogon roared in anger, spitting smoke.  
  
The hawk on her shoulder shrieked but stood its ground.  
  
The will, not the whip! Try to remember! What Viserys taught you about dragons?  
  
Nothing, my brother taught me nothing but fear. How could he have done so? He never saw a dragon, and she gave birth to three of them!  
  
But he was raised in King's Landing among your kin.  
  
This was madness. This was nonsense.  
  
Half of her makeshift weapon had been burnt by the mere contact with the dragon's head, and Daenerys had to step closer to the beast, only to discover his attentive, almost curious eyes, fixed on her small figure.  
  
It was almost as if the dragon questioned the bond she had always thought evident, natural. Why should I obey you? Who are you to command me?  
  
"Because I am Daenerys Stormborn of House Targaryen, your master," she answered automatically, remembering the ridiculous playlet Viserys had forced her to learn by heart since she had been old enough to memorize anything. Viserys was the dragon and she was the tamer. He mimicked a deep, grave voice, repeating and repeating the same line. "Why should I obey you? Who are you to command me?" And she had to utter a different answer to each similar question. These moments had always seemed so unfair to her, and she had decided early that she was only a foil in her brother's fantasy of power. Was it possible she had been wrong? Had her mad brother actually taught her something valuable?  
  
"Because from this moment, I am yours and you are mine," she went on, and progressed a few steps more in Drogon's direction.  
  
"Because from this moment, we will be dragon and rider. We shall fly high in the sky and unleash hell on our enemies." A step closer.  
  
"There will be no limit to our freedom but our eternal pact." Another one.  
  
"And, when death claims me, my body will be yours to feast on." A last one.  
  
"This is the moment to conclude our pact, Drogon."  
  
Red eyes met purple eyes.  
  
The hawk flew away.  
  
And the clash of wills began.


	4. Warg

Ben Plumm and his lieutenants had run out of the command tent planted in the middle of the Second Sons camp to see with their own eyes the arriving fleet Jorah had just announced.  
  
Allie or foe?  
  
This was the question in every set of wary eyes.  
  
Yet, one pair of mismatched, and frightened, eyes confirmed the knight's instinct.  
  
Not allies. Foes, definitely foes, in spite of the friendly banners.  
  
"Seven hells! Who are they?" The question was more rhetorical than anything.  
  
Jorah considered the Imp sadly. He must have been little more than a boy at the time.  
  
"As a Lannister, you should know better than anybody," he replied darkly.  
  
For once, he did not try to take advantage of his unlikely companion's fears.  
  
For once, the Imp did not mock the knight's gruff tones, either.  
  
"The Iron Fleet. What are they doing here?"  
  
"Apart destroying everything in their wake? Not much. That's what they do, Imp."  
  
On Slavers' Bay, the once flat horizon was occupied by hundreds of sails. Jorah lifted a moistened finger to test the wind.  
  
"They're sailing against the wind, fortunately. If nothing changes, it will force Victarion to rely only on the oars, and if he wants his men ready for combat, he'll need to slow the cadence. We still have time, not much, but some," he commented. He was not the best knight in Westeros, but there were some domains in which he feared no living soul.  
  
Fighting the Ironborn was one of them.  
  
Warging, also.  
  
"How do you know it's Victarion?" the Imp wondered aloud, dubious about his companion's knowledge. "It's been a long time since you were last seen in Westeros, and many things have changed."  
  
"Some things never do, Imp, especially Victarion's ability to appear from nowhere with hundreds of sails."  
  
"It could be Euron, or Balon, or any other Ironborn," Tyrion insisted, obviously testing the knight, or discovering him in another light.  
  
Jorah fixed a hard stare on the mismatched eyes.  
  
"Trying to reassess my place in your grand game of cyvasse, Imp? Thinking I may be a better ally on my own than Ben Plumm and all his crew?"  
  
"Just considering my options, Ser Bear."  
  
"If it was Euron, we would already be dead. And Balon has his arse attached to his damn Sea Stone Chair. And he's dead, if the rumors I heard in Volantis are true."  
  
"You're very fond of the Greyjoys, aren't you?" Tyrion japed at last.  
  
Jorah snorted in disbelief. The Imp just could not hold his tongue, even in the most important moments.  
  
"More seriously," the dwarf went on, designing Ben Plumm and his lieutenants who were debating their options while staring at the approaching float with a tilt of his head. "We need to win them over, now."  
  
"We? That's a first…"  
  
"I think your knowledge of the Ironborn is more credible than mine. Shall we go?"  
  
Jorah looked at the confused group. Tyrion was right, they had to convince Ben now or never. However, what kind of influence could two former slaves have? Tyrion's money had been enough to convince the Second Sons to accept him, but it would not be enough to convince them to fight the Ironborn. He could see in their eyes they already had made their foolish decision to turn cloak once again. Little did they know that Victarion despised this kind of cowardice more than anything. Jorah could warn them, but what was the weight of a twice exiled man's words? Not much.  
  
"You go, I'll get you some help," the knight answered cryptically and started to seek refuge in his own tent.  
  
In his peripheral vision, he could see the Imp waddling to Ben's tent.  
  
Once in his tent, Jorah installed the little bell and attached the cord that would warn him of any intrusion around his left wrist. He sat down, his naked blade on his knees, ready to strike. Ever since he had gotten out of his cage, this had been his ritual before reaching for his hawk across the Dothraki Sea.  
  
Before reaching for Daenerys.  
  
And he let his mind wander in search of the white lion he had been trying to warg into for the last days. A hawk had proved more than useful, but he needed a stronger companion, and fast. The hrakkar was as resistant as the shadow cats were back in the North, and refused his presence. Each moment passed in the lion's skin was a constant struggle, but its resistance was wearing thin, Jorah could feel it. Yet, he still hesitated to break the hrakkar to his will forcibly. His aunt had always warned him that a beast subjugated in such a way would resent the skinchanger forever.  
  
If everything went according to Jorah's plan, Tyrion's negotiation would be the occasion to persuade the lion their future collaboration as companions would be beneficial for the beast, and, more generally, to reaffirm the knight's position in the grand scheme of things.  
  
His mind did not wander for long and found the hrakkar in its cage. Luckily, the moment when a slave would come and fearfully feed the beast was not far off.  
  
Let me in. Today, a better feast is waiting for you. Fresh meat. Meat from your own hunt.  
  
The lion resisted, as usual, so Jorah forced it to jump out of its cage. Captivity had almost broken the hrakkar. It needed to taste blood once more, but not now. Making profit of the momentary panic, Jorah ran in the direction of the Second Sons' camp, enjoying the powerful movements of his new skin, easing himself a little deeper in with each jump. Soon enough, he was in the camp and did not leave much time to the mercenaries to react. He throttled the nearest guard, salivating in his own tent at the metallic taste, and rushed to Ben's tent. One bite and one strike from his big claws were sufficient to maim the guards posted at the entrance and he stepped in calmly into the tent while Tyrion was arguing vehemently with Brown Ben.  
  
"What in Seven Hells?" Kasporrio yelled just before falling on his back, throttled. Jorah never liked the man, and they needed to isolate Ben if they wanted him to accept their plan.  
  
Tyrion was as pale as Death itself, but the little lion man composed himself sooner than everyone in the tent. He waddled to the hrakkar and put a hand on its back.  
  
"Did you forget that Lannisters are lions, Brown Ben? What do you choose? Immediate and sure death, or the possibility to save your skin in the end?"  
  
"You're mad, Imp," Ben muttered, his resolve diminishing by the second in his eyes. Jorah's instinct had been right.  
  
"You're out of a lieutenant, Ben, why don't you assign Mormont in his place?"  
  
What the hell?  
  
"Well, as far as Ironborn are concerned, the man does possess more knowledge in his little finger than the rest of the company. Shall I go out and warn him?" Tyrion pressed on. The dwarf was good at that game.  
  
"Please do," Ben answered weakly. "I hope you know what you're doing, I really hope."  
  
"A Lannister always pays his debt. You saved my life, and I'll save your sorry arses."  
  
With this, Tyrion Lannister waddled to Jorah's tent, followed by a respectful hrakkar under the amazed and fearful stares of the company.  
  
"Never again. You hear me Ser Bear? Never again or I'll kill you in your damn sleep, you bloody warg," the Imp muttered between clenched teeth as the improbable pair walked through the camp.


	5. Hesitations

  
  
_What do you want to see? Long buried past or days yet to come? What is your choice? Weigh your choice carefully, Girl-that-rides._  
  
For the past days, the nagging question had resounded again and again in Daenerys' ears.  
  
 _What do you want to see? Long buried past or days yet to come? What is your choice? Weigh your choice carefully, Girl-that-rides._  
  
The Silver Queen, the Mother of Dragons, Daenerys Stormborn of House Targaryen rode her black beast like no human being had for centuries. A light pressure of a hand on Drogon's neck was enough to change the course of his flight. A soft-spoken word made the beast fly higher or attack his prey or land carefully on the ground.  
  
If only Viserys could see her, accomplishing all by herself what he had fantasized of doing so many times during their childhood!  
  
In the daylight, she rode her dragon high in the sky like Aegon the Conqueror!  
  
At night, she dreamt of a starry, black sky, fresh wind under her wings and midnight hunting, waking up in the morning to the metallic taste of fresh blood filling her mouth.  
  
Daenerys had left Vaes Dothrak a few days before, leaving ashes and tears behind her. Drogon's wrath had left deep, burning scars in its wake, and never again the sacred city of the Horse Lords would rest assured of its invulnerability. For the first time in their history, the Dothraki had been the prey, and their whole world was on the verge of collapsing.  
  
The dragon eats both lion and lamb.  
  
Yet, they had been her people, once. Or, she had wanted to be part of them, only to discover that all her efforts had been vain, shattered by the sight of her lord husband falling from his horse.  
  
Daenerys could have stayed in the depths of the Dothraki Sea, in Vaes Dothrak, to mend the scar she had left, to give her people a new purpose. She could have been a khaleesi once more, leading the most formidable khalasar ever seen.  
  
Your battles are in Westeros.  
  
Deaf to the supplications of the Dosh Khaleen, Daenerys had called her dragon and flown away, finally closing this particular door of her past.  
  
Finally letting go of the first man she had loved and their unborn child.  
  
New battles awaited her in the South, and most of all, in the West.  
  
Daenerys Targaryen was not a khaleesi anymore, but a dragon queen of old; and she would claim what was hers with fire and blood. The past was of little use to her; only the future she would build with her hands mattered. At the end of her first day of travel to the South, the exhilarating feeling of the fresh wind on her face, the impatience she felt when she thought about the people she had left behind in Meereen and beyond, the surge of assurance she had never felt before in her life, all of this almost convinced Daenerys to give her answer.  
  
She had been on the verge of giving it when some irrational fear had submerged her. For the last hour of fading daylight, she had walked around under the indifferent stare of her dragon, calling out, searching the horizon for a bird that would not come.  
  
Where had her companion gone? Had Drogon's flight been too swift for a mere hawk? Had the loyal bird been no more than a figment of her imagination?  
  
Suddenly a little girl again, Daenerys had buried the nagging question into the depths of her mind and curled up against Drogon's flank, in search of warmth in the cold of the night.  
  
 _What do you want to see? Long buried past or days yet to come? What is your choice? Weigh your choice carefully, Girl-that-rides._  
  
Three days later, Daenerys still had no answer and the Skahazadhan grew wider and wider under her, lazily winding out of the Dothraki Sea. The hills were closer and closer, and once Drogon would fly past them, she could guess the pyramids of Meereen in the distance.  
  
She was almost there.  
  
Almost.  
  
A sudden clamor coming from the distant ground broke the silence and tore Daenerys' attention away from the horizon she had contemplated longingly. A prolonged pressure from her knee made Drogon circle down in the direction of the hue and cry.  
  
Another khalasar…  
  
The beast went on with its descent, careful of its rider's equilibrium, and Daenerys could distinguish a group of prisoners inside the khalasar. The clamor came from them. Ignoring the blows and threats by the older riders, young Dothraki shouted and lifted their arms in her direction.  
  
 _Khaleesi!_  
  
The riders had fearfully vacated their post around the prisoners, among which she now recognized her bloodriders. Ser Barristan must have sent them in search for her. Drogon landed on the ground, his throat emitting the low sound that announced a sudden surge of black, angry flames.  
  
No! Not yet…  
  
Only one rider dared to face her, Khal Pono who had abandoned her husband as soon as the great Khal had shown a sign a weakness.  
  
Draca…  
  
The word had been on her lips, the heart quickening in anticipation of the screams of terror and pain. She had almost said the word but bitter bile had filled her mouth instead.  
  
What was she morphing into?  
  
Behind her, Rakharo and Jhogo called her with the enthusiasm of their youth, with the love of faithful followers.  
  
What had she done to deserve such faithfulness?  
  
What do you want to see? Long buried past or days yet to come? What is your choice? Weigh your choice carefully, Girl-that-rides.  
  
Obsessed with a future she could never reach, fearful of a prophecy that would never come, Daenerys had led them from one nightmare to another, unable to look back and consider her decisions, fleeing from the Red Waste to Qarth, from Qarth to Slaver's Bay, from Slaver's Bay to Vaes Dothrak, again and again and again.  
  
If I look back, I am lost.  
  
That was what she used to repeat herself, finding solace in this pitiful excuse that liberated her from her responsibilities.  
  
To go forward you must go back.  
  
That was what Quaithe had told so long ago in Qarth. Maybe was there some truth in the riddle? After all, going back to Vaes Dothrak had given her a power few men had possessed in history.  
  
In front of her, Khal Pono struggled to remain on his saddle, to force his horse to stay calm. It was a pitiful sight. Why had she wanted to burn down such an insignificant man?  
  
Had she desired to avenge her bloodriders? A quick look behind her showed the young riders were still in a rather good shape.  
  
Had she longed to avenge her husband's memory? Khal Pono had only followed a deep rooted tradition in a culture that was still so foreign to her. Daenerys could hardly blame him, if she was honest.  
  
Had she almost spoken the word because she had been fascinated by Drogon's fire since his intervention in the fighting pit of Meereen? This idea filled her mouth with a bitter taste once more.  
  
She would not be that queen.  
  
"Khal Pono!" Daenerys called with a clear voice. "Give me your help for now, and when the time comes, I'll forget everything that occurred after my Sun-and-Stars fell from his horse." To prove her good intent, Daenerys stepped forward, letting an impatient dragon behind her. "There will be great rewards for your brave riders!" She advanced a little bit more.  
  
In front of her, Khal Pono's furrowed brow revealed that her proposition had not fallen on deaf ears.  
  
To go forward you must go back.  
  
Daenerys knew what answer she would give Drogon this night.  
  
She was terrified.


	6. Turncloaks

Unsullied with spiked hats bore he banner of the dragon.  
  
Krakens from the sea flew the banner of the dragon.  
  
Harpies from Old Ghys unexpectedly threw their pride to the ground and raised the banner of the dragon instead.  
  
Three armies faced one another on the Meereenese shore, yet presented the same banner.  
  
A mummer's show.  
  
An ignorant observer could see the awaited reunion of three allies on a distant, foreign shore. After all, dragon banners hung everywhere, casting long shadows on the sandy ground bathed by the golden sunset, along with the Unsullied's spears and the axes carelessly thrown over the Ironborn's shoulders.  
  
A deadly mummer's show.  
  
Hesitant silence now replaced the past furor of the battle.  
  
The moment a dragon banner had emerged from the Yunkish command tent, the once formidable host disintegrated, scattered like dead leaves in the autumn wind. Ignoring their captains' barked orders and furious whipping, the slaves threw their weapons to the ground and ran in the direction of Meereen. Now certain that no gain would come from this debacle, the sellswords turned their cloaks as they were bound to do, and fled into the depths of Essos. Only the Second Sons remained, regrouped around the command tent, hoping that the severed heads at their feet would be their shield against the Dragon and the Kraken's wrath.  
  
Horns blasted from the walls of Meereen to put an end to the angry charge led by an old knight who seemed to remember he had been called The Bold once. At once, the Stormcrows and the few Dothraki who had not been sent in search of their Khaleesi formed an encircling line and slowly progressed to the command tent, ignoring the fleeing soldiers, their weapons ready to strike. In the meantime, the Unsullied maintained the impassable line by which the Ironborn's stubborn attacks had been repelled, like waves breaking again and again on an abrupt cliff.  
  
Similar horns from the Iron Victory stopped these fruitless attacks. For once, the Ironborn were motionless, as if unsure of their next move. This hesitation in front of an unexpected difficulty confirmed Jorah's in his hopeful suspicion: Victarion was the one in command, and, fortunately, Victarion was not good at improvisation.  
  
This could be their chance to convince Selmy to accept their mad plan to throw the Kraken back to the sea where it belonged.  
  
A mummer's show that would decide if Jorah would live to see another day, or accept his punishment from Strong Belwas' blade, or fall from grace once more and flee to save his skin.  
  
Unconsciously, Jorah's hand gripped the neck of the man kneeling by his feet harder. A small, pacifying hand went to his forearm.  
  
"I would appreciate it very much if you refrained from snapping our exchange money's neck, Ser Bear," the Imp murmured, staring at him with his mismatched eyes.  
  
Jorah sighed and forced himself to relax his grip on the blue haired man they had unexpectedly caught in the Yunkish tent, participating to the feverish war council in a way no hostage should have.  
  
The Northern knight had almost cut Naharis down in an excess of blind rage – the rage only a spy turned into a faithful follower, then punished for it could feel at witnessing a pretending zealot turning his cloak so easily. Fortunately, the Imp's astute mind had decided that the Tyroshi would be much more useful alive than dead and had stayed Jorah's hand. So, instead of cutting the man's head once and for all, they had bound him and brought him along with their other trophies to negociate with Selmy.  
  
"So, it is decided then?" the dwarf went on once assured their plan would not backfire because of an undesirable fit of jealousy on Jorah's part. "You wait for my cue to come and bring our gifts." Playfully, the Imp tapped on the blue haired man's shoulder, obviously deaf to their prisoner's insults. "You're a good ranger, Mormont," he went on more seriously, "but I'm the talker."  
  
"I won't deny it, Lannister."  
  
"And keep your hrakkar close, we might need it."  
  
"I thought you didn't appreciate his proximity."  
  
"I'm only learning to appreciate the advantages that come with a warg friend."  
  
Jorah contemplated the surprised expression that death had engraved on the severed heads at their feet. The Yunkish generals had not known what had hit them when a troop of sell-swords lead by a man fighting by a hrakkar had burst into their tent earlier that day. Making profit of the disorganization that had struck the Yunkai camp in the wake of the double attack from the sea and the city under siege, most of the Second Sons had ridden away, ignoring the insults and the threats to buy Jorah and a few decided men enough time to cut off the Harpy's head once and for all. Only then, Brown Ben and his men had charged, creating a bloody path to the command tent, cutting their way through other sellswords, slaves and noblemen indistinctively, proudly raising the banner of the dragon.  
  
And now, here they stood, anxiously observing the approaching riders, humbly presenting their gifts to buy back their place in the Queen's graces, to persuade proud, old Selmy not to cut their heads, to convince him that the Kraken was the enemy, not them.  
  
"Tyrion Lannister. This is an unexpected sight," the knight commented sharply from his horse. Following his clue, the other riders remained on their horses, swords and spears ready to strike at his command. "You're far from home, Lannister," he went on coldly.  
  
As they had decided, Jorah stayed behind and observed the scene silently. For the first time, having been exiled by Daenerys had given him the occasion to gather invaluable information.  
  
For now, he and the Imp were at an advantage. They knew about the Young Wolf's and the boy king's demise, they knew about the chaos in Westeros, and Selmy did not. Similarly, the old knight probably ignored the reasons behind Tyrion's presence in Essos, from the kinslaying to Varys' machinations, whereas they did know a good part of the truth.  
  
The night before the battle, the Imp had decided that, if they wanted to survive this battle, they had to share all the information they possessed about Essos and Westeros. After all, one had been the Queen's right hand before his exile, and the other had been Hand of the King. Both had been used by Varys. It was high time to counter the eunuch's game.  
  
This had been a sound decision. Even if Selmy's voice was cold and unforgiving, the very fact he agreed to talk to the Imp was proof enough he ignored everything about the kinslaying. After hearing about the Red Wedding and Tywin Lannister's role in the bloody event that had cost his cousin's life, Jorah himself could not blame the Imp for what he had done anymore.  
  
"The man that had sent you so far away from King's Landing decided that a little more brain would not hurt if we wanted the return of the rightful queen be a success."  
  
The dwarf could not hold his tongue, even in moments like these! Jorah clenched his teeth, half tempted to call his hrakkar already.  
  
On the other hand, Selmy seemed immune to the Imp's irony, the probable result of years of dealings with the royal court.  
  
"Hold your tongue, Imp. You are far from your father's armies and not really in a position to jape as you usually do," the harsh answer came out. There was not any hint of Arstan left in the knight who considered the sellswords with barely veiled contempt. "And, to be honest with you, Imp, your present company does not allow you to take the situation lightly."  
  
"Actually, Ser Barristan, this company is what allows me to present myself in front of you," the dwarf replied, ignoring the venom in the older man's voice. There was no love for the Lannisters here, and justly so, if you believed Selmy's tale about his demise as a Commander of the Kingsguard. "Thanks to them, imperfect as they are, the Yunkai are not a threat anymore," he said, motioning to the severed heads on the ground. Thanks to them, we discovered that one of the hostages did not suffer the same treatment as the others."  
  
That was his cue, sooner than expected. Jorah grabbed Daario by the collar and joined the Imp in front of Selmy.  
  
"Thanks to one of them," the Imp concluded, "we might have a chance against an enemy we know almost nothing about."  
  
Jorah remained silent and observed the Stormcrows' reactions at seeing their captain taken captive by a publically proclaimed traitor. Hands clenched their swords a bit tighter, heels were ready to hit the flanks of the horses. That was expected. Some eyes were fixed on the man on the ground with a hint of satisfaction. Daario's coup had propelled him to the unchallenged command of the Stormcrows, but it also had created a silent resentment. That was less expected, but very encouraging.  
  
It was time to scare them all a bit. Jorah closed his eyes and used Daario's shoulder as a support, ignoring Selmy's answer to the Imp announcement.  
  
"And what can a man without honor, twice exiled, offer us, Mormont?"  
  
He heard the first part of the sentence with human ears and the end with feline ones. Calmly, he made the hrakkar step out of his hiding place, just behind the tent. The slaughter that had occurred during the battle had sealed their pact for good, and the beast let him enter almost willingly.  
  
The horses noticed the white lion's presence well before the men and began to stamp and snort and neigh, suddenly restless. Jorah made profit of the momentary confusion to choose his victim, one of Daario's faithful lieutenants, and jumped at his throat. Forcing the hrakkar to abandon his prey for now demanded a quick struggle before the beast submitted to walk to Selmy's horse.  
  
Now stay.  
  
Jorah opened his eyes.  
  
"What can I offer? News about the Queen, ways to negotiate with Victarion, some other talents many of you in the South find monstrous."  
  
Come.  
  
The hrakkar padded to him obediently and stood by Daario.  
  
"I offer you a traitor, a real one this time, whom we surprised as he was sharing knowledge about the city's sewers with the Yunkai."  
  
Jorah grabbed Daario by the collar once more and walked to Selmy.  
  
"The Queen is alive? Where? How? How do you know?" In an instant, the concerned Queensguard replaced the angry knight.  
  
"Alive and well, traveling in the Dothraki Sea, learning to control Drogon," the Northern knight stated calmly. "I have no way to prove it to you, you will have to trust me," he added as he extended his free hand.  
  
To me.  
  
The hrakkar left Daario's side to put his muzzle in the waiting hand.  
  
That was it. All depended on Selmy's ability to put the past behind them, to trust a man who had fought against the Targaryens during the rebellion, to accept the words of another man whose family had betrayed two kings to confiscate the power in Westeros…  
  
The sound of a horn blowing made the decision for them.


	7. Kraken and dragon

The pain caused by the sound of the horn was unbearable.  
  
Only moments before, Jorah stood proudly, facing Selmy and his riders while affecting to follow the Imp's argumentation with calmness he did not actually feel, his grip on Daario's collar firm, his control on the hrakkar flawless.  
  
Now, the Northman was nothing more than a kneeling, trembling form. Forgotten was Daario by his side. Forgotten were the riders in front of him. Forgotten was the Imp and his machinations.  
  
Nothing existed anymore in Jorah's world but the pain that penetrated his brain through the ears in spite of the futile protection of his clasped hands. An acrid, metallic smell filled suddenly his nostrils, and warm, sticky liquid touched his palms.  
  
Blood.  
  
The sound seemed to go on and on, filling the air around him, clutching and twisting his gut in vice-like grip, clenching his throat, blurring his vision… Jorah had to fight with all his might to remain on the verge of consciousness. He did not know if the others around him were as affected as he was by the hellish sound, but there was a thing he did know. Falling unconscious on the battle ground would be his death. He had to remain conscious, at all cost.  
  
He bit his lips until they bled.  
  
He screamed his throat hoarse.  
  
He buried his nails in his scalp.  
  
Then it was all over.  
  
Silence reigned once more on the desolated plain of Meereen.  
  
Tentatively, Jorah cracked one fearful eye open, then the other, as if daring to look around would provoke the horn into blasting again. Partially reassured, he uncovered one ear, then the other, considering the blood he had felt on his palms. Finally, he attempted to stand up, but in vain. His limbs shook too much; his legs refused to obey him; his arms were as fragile as a newborn's.  
  
Jorah rolled around to consider the scene around him. Noticing that he had not been the only one affected by the horn was a small satisfaction. Riders ran after their panicked horses, or tried to avoid their desperate attacks. Selmy barked orders around him, for once ignored, by his horse and by his men. In the distance, Unsullied struggled to get back to their feet, leaning heavily on their spears. Closer to Jorah, the Imp staggered, eyes wide open, arms dangling around uselessly,as though drunk. Next to him, the hrakkar lay on the ground, whimpering like a helpless lion cub. Groaning, the knight reached a searching hand on the other side, finding nothing but cut bonds and dirt.  
  
Seven hells.  
  
Daario had made profit of the confusion to free himself and escape.  
  
May the Others take him.  
  
Jorah reached for his sword, trying once more to get up. Alas, the movement was too brusque, and, as soon as he drew his blade, he had to use it as a cane to keep his fragile equilibrium, leaning on the pommel with both his hands, swallowing back the bile rising to his throat, like a drunkard would.  
  
Where was the bastard?  
  
Jorah's vision had cleared but the insistent humming in his ears that had soon followed the silence would not stop. He was deaf to the world, and managed to dodge awkwardly the first blow of the sword only thanks to the panicked expression in the Imp's mismatched eyes. The second jab left a shallow cut on his left forearm he had sacrificed to stop Daario's blade. Fortunately, the sellsword was in a better shape than Jorah was, but not that much. The swings of the Tyroshi's sword were angry but sloppy, and the Northern knight was able to dodge them or stop them, rolling on the ground, using his feet to make Daario stumble, throwing dirt and stones around, fighting to get back on his feet and use his own sword properly at last.  
  
However, he never managed to stand up long enough to counter-attack. Stopping a hit meant he would fall down heavily on the back. Trying to attack meant he would stagger down, carried along by the weight of the sword. In his peripheral vision, the hrakkar still refused to move a limb, properly frightened.  
  
The horn was evil, there was no other way to explain why he was he had been so affected, why a warg and his beast has been so affected. Jorah did not knot its purpose yet, but he knew it was an evil one.  
  
A vicious attack on his sword arm made him drop the blade, and Daario let out a cry of triumph. Too confident in his near victory, the Tyroshi attacked Jorah recklessly. The knight crouched abruptly, leaning on his hands before springing up, aiming at his opponent's chest with his armored shoulder. The shock was violent; both men fell to the ground but Daario did not drop his sword, and was quicker getting back to his feet, while Jorah struggled to clear his head and stand up one more time.  
  
Helpless, the knight closed his eyes as Daario approached him slowly, sword ready to strike. The hrakkar had to answer his call.  
  
It had to.  
  
The humming in his ears had diminished and sounds made their reappearance in his world.  
  
Dragons!  
  
That was the first shout he heard.  
  
Fire!  
  
That was the second.  
  
His own cry of pain was the third sound, not caused by Daario's blade as he expected but by the hrakkar fangs planted in his left arm as the beast dragged him away, forcing his master to stand up.  
  
"On your feet, you bloody warg, on your feet! Quick!"  
  
At his side, the Imp struggled to push the knight to his feet, to make him run for cover, to escape from the approaching flying beast.  
  
For a second, Jorah's heart swelled.  
  
Daenerys.  
  
But it could not be, she was still so far away…  
  
And the dragon was golden in the sunset.  
  
Viserion.  
  
Seven hells.  
  
Among the shouts of alarm and screams of pain that now invaded his ears, Jorah could distinguish the characteristic sound of swords clashing again and again, faster and faster until a screaming Daario fell to his knees, clutching his profusely bleeding stump that now replaced his sword hand.  
  
Radiant in his white armor stood Barristan the Bold. The old knight had made his decision, obviously, but too late. Tyrion and Jorah called the Queensguard desperately, trying to catch his attention focused on the traitorous sell-sword, to warn him of the imminent danger.  
  
Too late.  
  
The Ironborn had invaded the plain before Meereen. A group surrounded Barristan. Another caught Jorah and his companion, dragging them brutally to the Yunksh command tent. For a second, Jorah thought the old knight was intent on fighting to the bitter end. In the distance, he could see that the Unsullied had capitulated.  
  
Impossible.  
  
By his side, the hrakkar barred his fangs, fearfully, his tail between his legs.  
  
Impossible.  
  
Barristan the Bold dropped his sword probably for the first time in his life and look up at the sky.  
  
Impossible.  
  
Victarion Greyjoy was riding Viserion in the sunset that bathed the shore of Meereen.  
  
They were lost.


	8. Ghosts of a dynasty

"Father!"  
  
"Fire…"  
  
"She's gone!"  
  
"Betrayal!"  
  
"I am sorry but I bear no love for him."  
  
"My Lord, I advise you to be more prudent… I beg you…"  
  
"The hell with your prophecies and your promises! Why don't you come back to King's Landing at once to stop this madness?"  
  
"The day you hold your first son, you'll understand, Young Bear."  
  
"Is this your wish, my Lady?"  
  
"Blood will pay for blood."  
  
"Send ravens to the North! Ride and warn Jon Aryn! And you, you go to Riverrun. We'll make sure the Mad King's call to arms won't swiftly. Go!"  
  
"Jon Connington has been defeated! And Lord Tywin remains deaf to his Grace's calls. We can't go on like that or it'll be all over!"  
  
"It's not I don't like him. He's our new liege and we obey him. I just wish there would be more Lord Rickard in him."  
  
At first, disjointed words and sentences collided in Daenerys' mind in the most incoherent form of dream. She did not know what she exactly expected when she had finally given her firm answer to Drogon's nagging question, but she certainly had not expected this maelstrom of thoughts and feelings.  
  
What do you want to see? Long buried past or days yet to come? What is your choice? Weigh your choice carefully, Girl-that-rides.  
  
She had wanted to learn at last. She had decided to confront her kin's past. She had resolved to look back and keep her eyes open, whatever pleasant or unpleasant truth she would discover.  
  
Alas! Daenerys felt even more lost than ever. She had longed for certainties and clues that would help her not to be the Dragon Queen who relished to see her enemies burnt to ashes by Drogon's dark flames. She desperately needed to see for herself why her father had been called the Mad King.  
  
Why Ser Barristan always seemed so embarrassed when evoking the past.  
  
Why Jorah had not even hesitated when he had sold her son's life to the Usurper.  
  
Why Viserys had been willing to let a whole khalasar rape her in order to get his throne back.  
  
What do you want to see? Long buried past or days yet to come? What is your choice? Weigh your choice carefully, Girl-that-rides.  
  
Instead, the same feverish dreams harassed her tired mind night after night as she led her new khalasar further South. First, a kaleidoscope of feelings had submerged her in her sleep, leaving her trembling in the morning, trembling so much she had had to reassure her faithful bloodriders she was not feeling ill.  
  
Love, rage, fear, sadness clashed in the dream, but, above all, reigned a deep feeling of betrayal, thick and burning as lava.   
  
On the second night, a whirlwind of faces invaded Daenerys' unconscious mind. Many were absolutely unknown, but some were oddly familiar. Among them was the sad, silver haired prince she had glimpsed in the House of the Undying. Rhaegar. Then appeared a frail, long-haired and long-nailed man on a throne made out of swords. Her father? A solemn lord, with long, grey hair, and a warm smile passed, riding his horse in a snow-covered plain. This one she did not know, but she decided she liked him. A wild, young warrior raised his pint in a dark tavern, a strong arm encircling a woman's waist familiarly. This one was not unlike Daario, looking for blood and women. A tall, solid young man, his black hair cut short, short as the beard that only adorned his chin walked out a forest of pines, bow and arrows in one hand, a dead deer flung over his shoulder, a brown bear accompanying him obediently. Jorah? She did not know her knight's face could wear such a bright, careless smile. A serious knight, his hair already greying, surveyed a training ground in his white armor, attentive and unexpectedly worried as he contemplated the blonde knight, almost a child, as he humiliated his companions. Barristan, that could only be him. Then smiles turned into teary shouts of rage and hatred, drunk songs morphed into cries of agony, worry became stupefaction, and sadness was replaced by drowning, blinding happiness… Above all, defiance grew and grew and grew, plunging its roots in the Iron Throne.  
  
When Daenerys finally woke up, tears filled her own eyes. Was this the answer Drogon had decided to give her?  
  
What do you want to see? Long buried past or days yet to come? What is your choice? Weigh your choice carefully, Girl-that-rides.  
  
How could she make sense of these disjointed feelings and faces? Who were they? Was it the past or was it nothing more than a hallucination?  
  
Daenerys was growing tired of riddles and games. She called Drogon in her mind, ordering him to give her clear answers or none at all. The beast ignored her, and flew high in the sky, oblivious of the rider on his back.  
  
On the third night, she decided to fight her dreams and stay awake until dawn. That was when words and sentences assaulted her mind's ears. The frail man's voice made her teeth clench at the sound of his incoherent mumbling in which the word fire appeared again and again and again, like an obsession. He sounded so much like Viserys! Rhaegar's tones were resigned, defeated almost, but soft. The grey-haired lord was reassuring, fatherly but firm at the same time. Barristan's orders resounded clearly in the training ground, and everybody revered him, even the young, blonde knight.  
  
Jorah, her bear, sounded… happy as he sang with the young warrior in a wooden hall.  
  
The next day, Daenerys prudently chose to ride among his khalasar. She was far too exhausted to fly with her dragon. However, she sought him once more.  
  
Are these hallucinations?  
  
Are these memories?  
  
Aren't you the memory of the world as you told me many nights ago.  
  
Drogon was nowhere to be seen until dusk.  
  
I am the memory of the world. I offer you the memories of the ones I come across. I give you the memories you want to know. If you do not ask, I cannot answer.  
  
Daenerys pondered as the khalasar stopped. They had reached the hills behind Meereen, and within a few days, they would reach the city. What would they find here? Had she made a mistake by choosing the past over the future?  
  
Yet, Daenerys could not go back and choose once more. She had to face this past once and for all.  
  
As she lied down in her tent, she wondered aloud, to nobody in particular.  
  
"Why did he betray me?"  
  
Who?  
  
"Why Jorah sold me to the Usurper?" she clarified before closing her eyes.  
  
Jorah and his companion still sang, in the same hall.  
  
"My lord, you had far too much to drink I'm afraid," he cautioned, half-drunk himself, not so discretely observing a serving maid juggling with empty plates.  
  
"My lord father is still alive, and may the gods, old and new, give him a long life before I must take on his responsibilities! When I'm lord, I'll call you to Winterfell, and you'll deal with aaaall the boring business."  
  
"If that's your wish," Jorah humored his companion.  
  
"Better yet, Maester Luwyn will do that, and we'll have looooooooooong ride to the Wall and beyond!"  
  
"As you wish, my lord." Obviously, the young woman smile interested him much more than his companion's ramblings.  
  
"Brandon! My name is Brandon! Like the Builder!"  
  
"I'll call you Brandon when you decide to stop hiding in my hall and go back to Winterfell to fulfill your duties."  
  
"Honestly, did my lord father foster a bloody warg to protect me or a mother hen?"  
  
On the fourth day, Daenerys woke up, swallowing the rising bile with difficulty.  
  
Blood will pay for blood.  
  
That was what Jorah said so long ago.  
  
And yet, he had followed her, in the end.  
  
He had loved her.


	9. Darkness

The Eyrie, King's Landing, Meereen…  
  
Wherever Tyrion traveled, he seemed to end up in the same uncomfortable place.  
  
A cell.  
  
A dark, damp, and smelly cell.  
  
In Westeros and in Essos, those places were the same. The former occupants' presences always welcomed the new prisoner and never left him for the entire duration of his stay in the cell, and even beyond. The thin fresh layer of straw the jailers scattered on the floor did not suffice to cover the acrid smell that impregnated the cell, occupant after occupant, prisoner after prisoner.  
  
Blood. Sweat. Piss. Shit. _Fear._  
  
On the walls, once you got used to the darkness, you could decipher the awkward drawings engraved in the stone, makeshift calendars to keep count of the passing days, insults and prayers, cherished names and hated ones, licentious figures and sacred icons…  
  
As Tyrion had learnt in the sky cell of the Eyrie – not a dark and dank place, but such a more frightening one – or in the depths of King's Landing, passing time and forced isolation rapidly became unbearable for the prisoner.  
  
His worst enemy.  
  
Being forced into a cage alone with your thoughts and ghosts often opened the path to madness. In the Eyrie, Tyrion would have done anything to escape from the isolation – and the constant threat of a deathly fall. In King's Landing, in the depth of the Red Keep, pure, unadulterated dread had been his constant, unforgiving companion until the day of the trial, and beyond.  
  
 _How could he get out of this situation alive?_  
  
 _Would his Lord father agree with Cersei's madness?_  
  
 _Was there a way to prove he had not killed his nephew?_  
  
 _Who had killed Joffrey?_  
  
 _Would he die alone and abandoned?_  
  
The questions had danced in his mind, and some still were, many months and leagues later. Some questions had found their answer and their power over Tyrion had faded, only to be replaced by new, stronger obsessions.  
  
 _Would he see the shores of Westeros again?_  
  
 _Would he be able to get his revenge on Cersei?_  
  
 _Where did whores go?_  
  
Tyrion sighed, exasperated by this recurring line of thought. He had traveled across the world, from Westeros to Essos, from Blackwater Bay to Slavers' Bay, most of time drunk, sometimes sober, hidden in a barrel, free to move on a ship, bound and thrown behind a saddle. He had met many new people, discovered conspiracies and saw a dragon. He had saved his skin and others' skins from death and slavery, yet his father's voice resumed to resonate in his head the second the Ironborn's rough hands had pushed him into his cell. Would his fathers' ghost haunt him to the end of his days? A dark voice whispered that, considering the current situation, such haunting would not last very long…  
  
In the neighboring cells, Tyrion could hear Ser Barristan's incessant pacing. The old knight was not very used to being held prisoner. An ironic smile formed on the dwarf's lips. That was probably the first time in his existence that Barristan the Bold was confined in a place for thieves and murderers and traitors. In the distance, moans of pain betrayed Naharis' agony. If their stay in the depths of Meereen lasted more than a week, the blue haired sellsword would be done for. They had barely spent a day and a half in their prison and the smell of corrupting flesh already reached Tyrion's nostrils.  
  
Suddenly, images of Jaime with his golden hand assaulted the dwarf's mind. Had his brother moaned and cried as he nursed a gangrened stump? It was a difficult idea to accept when one had spent their youth admiring their elder's prowess with a sword, lance or lance. Did the moaning come from the pain or from the loss of the sword hand, from the loss of what defined those warriors once?  
  
Once more, Tyrion shook his head. Dwelling in the past, letting thoughts of his family invade his mind would do no good to his current situation. Think, he had to think of a way out. Dying here in Meereen at the hand of Victarion Greyjoy was simply unconceivable.  
  
"Mormont?" he whispered in the dark tentatively. He knew the big knight had been thrown into the nearest cell. "Mormont!" he repeated louder.  
  
No answer.  
  
Worry crept into Tyrion's thoughts. The knight had remained quite silent ever since Greyjoy had appeared riding the golden dragon. The damned horn seemed to have afflicted the warg a great deal. What if he was still afflicted? The dwarf could not lose his now most precious pawn.  
  
His best ally.  
  
"Mormont!" he kept on calling, gripping the iron bars, trying to get a look in the dark corridor.  
  
"Enough, Imp! Keep quiet!"  
  
Brown Ben's angry snarl resounded, harsh as a lash.  
  
Tyrion's plan had backfired, and he could guess in the sellsword's tone that the captain would get his revenge as soon as he could. However, for now, in these cells, Ben's threats were of little importance.  
  
"Mormont!"  
  
Had this sudden return to prison – to a cage of some sort – shattered the knight's all too recent new found fighting spirit? Had Greyjoy's appearance on the dragon's back destroyed the man's last hopes?  
  
A weaker man would be curled up in a ball, leaking his wounds. But Mormont was not that kind of man, was he? He was the Old Bear's son, after all.  
  
He knew the Queen would be back soon better than anyone.  
  
"Mor- ouch!"  
  
Sharp teeth gnawed his toes through his boot. Tyrion looked down angrily to discover a rat attacking the leather with enthusiasm. A bloody, damn rat. After the grey scale and the pale mare, would plague be his next affliction? The dwarf's hand groped around him blindly, searching for any stone, object that could help him to crush the beastie's skull to a pulp. Unexpectedly, his fingers touched something metallic and he almost exclaimed in triumph. Nonetheless, he repressed shout found its way out of his throat the moment when he discovered that his fingers had found a set of keys.  
  
And the rat bit him again, harder, clawing angrily at his stunted leg.  
  
 _Right. Before everything, give the change._  
  
"Seven hells! I'm going to kill you!" Tyrion shouted, trying to chase the beast away.  
  
 _Like that, Ser Bear?_  
  
The rat disappeared into a hole, into the neighboring cell, and Tyrion smiled. The Old Bear's son still had some fight in him.  
  
"Imp! Shut that mouth of yours!" Mormont growled angrily. His grave, deep voice resonated in the cell, covering the light click of the lock as the dwarf opened it.  
  
Silently, stealthily, Tyrion slipped out from his cell to free his companions.


	10. Ice and Fire

Dark clouds of smoke rose from where Daenerys supposed Meereen to be. The khalasar had just ridden past the hills but they could not see the city yet.  
  
A now familiar anxiety seized her once more. What would she find out there?  
  
These dark clouds were ominous and shattered her last hope of finding the frail peace she had left behind still standing between Yunkai and Meereen. The insane concessions she had accepted and her ridiculous wedding to Hizdhar, all of this had been done in vain.  
  
Tears of fear and frustration formed in her eyes. For the tenth time this day, she summoned Drogon, hoping against reason that his answer to her command would be different.  
  
 _No, Girl-that-rides, I won't take you there, in any form. If I go there, you could lose me for good._  
  
This had been the beast's answer for five days now. The last time she had rode Drogon to Meereen, using the night as a shield, she had reassured herself in seeing an unchanging situation, the Yunkai outside, and Meereen still standing. Clinging to optimism, she had ignored the nagging voice that repeated that the Yunkish host should have left the shore by now, following the term of the peace she had bought with so many concessions. Daenerys had tried to rationalize what she had glimpsed from the sky by persuading herself that her prolonged absence could explain this breech of protocol.  
  
Her return would put the peace process back in motion once more.  
  
Sadly, this dark smoke rising in the horizon was the proof that the situation had gone horribly wrong. As Daenerys contemplated the landscape unfolding in front of her, she began to pray for the loved ones she left behind the day she flew away on Drogon's back. Her handmaids and the loyal Missandei came first to her mind, joined by the comforting Ser Barristan. Her children, all her children she had torn away from the slavers' clutches in Astapor and Yunkai invaded her mind. She even prayed for Jorah, wherever he was. The hawk had been long gone now, and she had to accept that the comforting bird had been nothing but a figment of her imagination. However, she spared no thought for her royal husband, and she was saddened when she noticed she had barely given her lover a thought.  
  
Daenerys' heart was in Westeros now. A longing she did not know she could feel accompanied her days and nights.  
  
The imposing Red Keep in King's Landing.  
  
The smell of pines on Bear Island.  
  
A Wall of ice.  
  
Red mountains.  
  
Rich fields, infinite moors and deep forests.  
  
Jorah's and Ser Barristan's memories had led her from North to South, from West to East across the paths of Westeros, and she ached to see these landscapes with her own eyes now. Daenerys had found a place where she wanted to belong with all her heart, and there was no place for a man like Daario…  
  
Sadly, there was no place for her captain in her plans either. What help could provide a bloodthirsty man when all she wanted was to make amends? The heat of the day had not disappeared yet, but Daenerys shivered when she remembered the dream that had reinforced her new determination.  
  
Her father bucked on his Iron Thrones, fascinated by the scene in front of him. A father who had come to seek pardon for his son's behavior was burning alive in his armor. The foolish son who had come and demanded explanations about his sister's abduction strangled himself in the hope of saving his father. A young man with a hawk skin witnessed the scene, powerless. And the Mad King laughed and laughed and laughed.  
  
Aye, Daenerys would take the Seven Kingdoms like her ancestor Aegon the Conqueror, with fire and blood. She would put an end to the incessant fighting and bring peace once more.  
  
However, she would not rule. She did not even know how she could conquer without ruling, but she would find a way.  
  
Dragons destroyed, they did not plant trees.  
  
Besides, what was the point of ruling for a few years if she could not give the throne to her son or daughter? What was the point of a barren queen? What was the point of bringing peace if war was bound to begin again as soon as Daenerys released her last breath?  
  
As if to strengthen her resolution, Daenerys kept her eyes trained on the dark smoke, letting another memory sink in, making an old, faded dream hers.  
  
 _Young lords and older ones sat around a wooden table covered with cups and empty plates. Outside, the weirwood of Winterfell glowered like a burning tree in the spring sunset._  
  
 _"My Lords," Rickard Stark began solemnly, looking around him at the men and women he had invited._  
  
 _A young Jorah was among them. A big man, bigger than Jorah, sat by his side, showing a roaring giant on his chest. A dark man with a white sunburst on his black cape played with his knife by Lord Stark's side. Brandon Stark was Jorah's second neighbor, and, for once, looked perfectly serious. A dozen more lords and noblemen and noblewomen completed the assembly, sporting black bears just like Jorah's, closed fists, wooden buckets, thistles…_  
  
 _"I summoned you this day to seek your advice. As you all witnessed it sadly, last winter cost us dearly, especially in your northern lands. We have to change our ways if we want to come out alive from the great winter. We have to prepare ourselves, thinking it is not a matter of if but a matter of when. That's why I am trying to tie new alliances in the South."_  
  
 _The last sentence provoked uproar. Lord Rickard raised an appeasing hand._  
  
 _"Not with the Iron Throne, but with High Lords who do not trust the Targaryens anymore. Such alliances would open part of their granaries to us in case of need."_  
  
 _"Why trust the Southrons?" the giant by Jorah's side exclaimed._  
  
 _"Because they have more grain than us, Umber!" her bear growled back, oblivious to the fact he was much younger than his neighbor. "Have you tried to make bread out of snow?"_  
  
 _"Why trust the Southrons?" Brandon repeated calmly. "Because these will support my father should a harsher winter forces him to reject the Iron Throne's authority. We cannot afford to let considerable parts of our crops go South to feed the Targaryens, especially when they don't see a single snowflake during all winter!"_  
  
 _"A King in the North once again," Umber whispered dreamily._  
  
 _"This would be the first step necessary to reform the Wall," Lord Rickard went on._  
  
 _"Why?" the man with the black cape asked defiantly. "Why change a sacred institution?"_  
  
 _"Yes!" a woman with the thistle sigil interrupted angrily. "The Nightwatch defends us against the wildlings, not you, the Rickard!"_  
  
 _Jorah exchanged tired glances with a woman wearing the same bear as he, and with the man with the closed fist._  
  
 _"Because I'm afraid that sooner than later, wildlings will be the least of the problems coming from beyond the Wall," her bear spoke, stroking his bearded chin absently. "Last winter, the bay of Ice froze for the most part, and we met strange creatures that refused to die. Fortunately, they weren't immune to drowning, and fire."_  
  
 _Anxious stares were exchanged now._  
  
 _"It's a legend, a myth…" some dared to whisper._  
  
 _"Had you talked with you father, Mormont?" Umber asked aloud, his brow furrowed as if this piece of information helped him to make sense of some mystery._  
  
 _"Aye. Unfortunately, he lost many experimented rangers last winter, so he doesn't possess the sufficient strength to go North and explore. Maybe these deaths aren't all due to the cold…"_  
  
 _A deafening silence filled the room._  
  
Daenerys tore her eyes away from the rising smoke. She had to go to Westeros as soon as possible. Jorah had been right, her battles were not here in Essos nor in Slaver's Bay, but in Westeros.  
  
There, she could put her dragons to good use, bring hope and not destruction.  
  
There, she could make amends and confront more ghosts from her dynasty.  
  
There, she could find her bear.  
  
But, first, she had to take Meereen back.


	11. Madness

Just like Mormont had told them, the Ironborn were great sailors and raiders but poor city keepers. Emboldened, liberated by their captain's triumph, Victarion's men had violently sacked a city where there was nothing left to sack, until orders came from the Great Pyramid to put an abrupt end to the raping and pillaging.  
  
Pilloried men, some missing a hand, attested to Victarion's desire to present himself as the Queen's ally, much to his men's displeasure. One could not sail with the Dragon's banner then sack her city. Victarion's was not a bright mind – that much Barristan could agree with Mormont – but even he knew how to maintain the necessary illusion to accomplish his plan. Fortunately for the group of shadows that ran along Meereen's streets in the middle of the night, the brutal order – so contrary to the Ironborn's customs – had come just as the escaped prisoners emerged from the underground galleries the Commander of the Queensguard had patiently studied. Brief but intense scenes of chaos ensued, which had helped the group to stealthily join the fighting pits where the Unsullied had been parked, deprived of their weapons.  
  
"Now, what do we do?" Barristan whispered once they were assured nobody had noticed their hiding place in the part of the pits destroyed by Drogon's fire. It had been more than a month now, and the smell of smoke and ashes still burnt his throat. Or was it the memory of this fateful day?  
  
"We wait," Mormont whispered back. "Get some rest, I will warn you when the moment comes."  
  
"What moment?" the Imp inquired seriously.  
  
"In a few hours, they will be so drunk they won't be able to stand straight."  
  
"How do you know?" the Imp went on with his questioning.  
  
There was no challenge in his voice, just curiosity. Obviously, the unlikely companions knew how to work together.  
  
Barristan let out an amused sigh. A Stark bannerman and a Lannister fighting side by side; King Aerys' and King Robert's former Kingsguard and Lord Rickard Stark's young advisor drawing sword side by side: that was the proof that this world had gone mad. The old knight observed the slaver turned into a slave as Mormont explained patiently.  
  
"They had sailed for months in unknown seas and had been deprived of a justly gained sack. Victarion knows his Ironborn, and I can guarantee you he's pillaging the caves of the Great Pyramid right now in order to keep them content and quiet. In the morning, we'll take the city back."  
  
Greyjoy was not the only one to know his men well. Mormont's knowledge of their adversary's customs seemed infinite, as infinite as his hatred for the Ironborn. The demon mask on his face gave him a fearsome expression, but not as fearsome as the darkness in his eyes.  
  
Images of the past came to the old knight's mind.  
  
During the siege of Pyke, during the final assault, he had witnessed a Northern warrior savagely cutting his way through Balon Greyjoy's men as if they were mere strawmen.  
  
During the battle of the Trident, he had been stopped in his attempt to assist Prince Rhaegar in his fight against Robert Baratheon by the same Northern warrior.  
  
Mormont's sword technique was simple, but terribly efficient. It was the kind of swordplay one learnt not by training endlessly but by trying to survive, fight after fight. And when the Northern knight let his emotions take the better of him, the violence of his blows was unstoppable.  
  
The deep scar on Barristan's shoulder was the testimony of such ferocity.  
  
"What about the dragon?" the Imp questioned once again.  
  
"We should get the hell out of this damn city," Brown Ben growled menacingly.  
  
Barristan sighed. What they should have done was leave the damn sellsword in his cell. The coward was of no use.  
  
"Ben, next time you open your mouth to say nothing, I'll throttle you," Mormont snapped even more menacingly. "Or maybe should I use you as bait for the dragon?"  
  
The last threat convinced the sellsword to close his mouth.  
  
Good.  
  
"We can't take the city back and risk that Victarion might burn it to the ground in return," Barristan objected softly. "Obviously, he has a plan. But will he be able to stick to his plan if we disrupt it?"  
  
"Excellent point, Ser Barristan," the Imp joined the conversation. "More importantly, how much time until the Queen comes back?"  
  
"A day, two at most… And, instead of freeing the Unsullied, we can harass the Ironborn for a day, keep them on their toes, have them worry. You seem to know the galleries well, Selmy."  
  
The old knight grimaced at the suggestion. He would have preferred a more honest form of combat. But if walking in the Harpy's steps was the solution to stop the Queen's city to be reduced to burning ashes…  
  
"The problem is that the Shavepate knows them even better, and I can imagine he's acting with Victarion the exact same way he did with the Queen."  
  
"Buying Greyjoy's good grace?" Mormont snorted, not finishing his thought.  
  
He did not need to. There were only one way of buying a Greyjoy's good grace: giving them a good and brave fight, which gave you the glorious right to die drowned in the sea… In some twisted manner, the only ways to obtain a clean death with these people were to die on the battlefield, or to be such a coward that they would open your throat and let your body rot on the ground or on the deck of your ship.  
  
"However, it's worth the risk. The Shavepate, whoever he might be, might be too occupied to kiss Victarion's arse to pay attention to his escaped prisoners…"  
  
The way the Imp made light of any situation was unnerving.  
  
"Let's wait, then?" the old knight asked finally.  
  
"Let's wait," his companions confirmed.  
  
Behind them, Brown Ben and his lieutenants silently accepted the plan, probably thinking of a way to save their skin before all. Daario's former lieutenants gave their reluctant consent – their Captain's treason had put them into a corner. The young warriors Barristan had trained for weeks agreed readily.  
  
Strong Belwas was oddly silent.  
  
Barristan looked at the former pit fighter. His expression was unreadable in the dark. Obviously, something more important than their improvised council of war had caught his attention. Crawling on his protesting knees, the old knight tried to get closer to Strong Belwas who sat by a small overture. As he got closer, he noticed the expression of terrified awe on the fighter's face.  
  
"Over there…" he heard him whisper.  
  
"Let me see, Belwas," Barristan commanded, and took a look outside.  
  
Near the Great Pyramid, Viserion flew almost lazily in the moonlight, circling over the city. Obviously, Greyjoy was intent to demonstrate his force and his authority as soon as possible to the city, and to his men as well. Victarion was not as stupid as it seemed, maybe. Showing off his ability to ride the dragon was a way to recompense his men for their efforts and sacrifices, to make them accept the lack of pillaging.  
  
It was a good move indeed, until the dragon rebelled…  
  
"Gods be good!" the old knight exclaimed, and throwing caution to the wind, he jumped out of their hiding place, soon followed by his companions.  
  
Near the Great Pyramid, Viserion began to fly erratically, like a stallion trying to throw his rider over. In the moonlight, the dragon twisted and contorted on himself, spitting fire around him, flying high then going into a wild, uncontrolled dive.  
  
And Victarion fell.  
  
And Viserion unleashed hell on the city.  
  
"Mormont? Let's retake the city."  
  
"Aye." Without further word, the Northern knight ran to the fighting pit.  
  
Let's save what can still be saved of our Queen's city.


	12. The Queen's council

Following her bear's miraculous return and to her court, an endless debate had taken place in Daenerys' courtroom for hours and hours. Forgotten was the fate of the traitors, Daario's and the Shavepate's and the Green Grace's. Forgiven was the madness of the Ironborn and Victarion's blind obedience to his brother.  
  
The Volantenes were coming and they would make no difference if the men they would slay very soon were born in Meereen, pertained to the Dragon Queen's army of Dothraki and Unsullied or came from the distant shores of Westeros. All they wanted was the feeble prey that Slaver's Bay had become because of Daenerys' intervention. The heirs of Old Valyria desired to feed on the Ghiscari's cadaver once more, a cadaver that the Mother of Dragons, heiress of the Targaryen blood and taint, had unwillingly prepared for them since the fateful day she had set a foot in Slaver's bay.  
  
And now, the glorious liberator of the day before found herself trapped into the inextricable mess she had created herself, along with old enemies and new friends and many others she did not know how to assess.  
  
Surely, this was not what her bear had in mind the night he had advised her to change the Balerion's course to the Ghiscari shores.  
  
His advice had been sound, and the taste of his mouth had been sweet, yet, she had closed her ears to the former, and closed her heart to the latter, anxious as she was to be perceived as a queen.  
  
Such childish impatience had led her to this very moment. Back in the silent depths of the Great Pyramid of Meereen, Missandei tended to her knight's many wounds, at least those that could be healed by fresh water and soothing balms, the ones left by her dragon, by her wayward child. As for the invisible ones, only Daenerys' pardon and attention would mend them, if her bear let her.  
  
However, before that, she had a council to administer and an incoming war to prepare.  
  
The Dragon Queen had to rip what the Dragon Girl had sown, and find a way to make it possible for Meereen and its occupants, all of them, whoever they were, masters, servants and slaves, Unsullied and Yunkish soldiers, sellswords and Iron Born, to see another day.  
  
"We should flee as long as we have the chance, and leave Meereen to Volantis, if that's what they want!" Brown Ben exclaimed, unsurprisingly.  
  
"Trying to defect once more, bloody traitor?" Daario snarled as if he was not a traitor himself. Her former captain was still too arrogant for his own good, even in chains, and missing a hand.  
  
"We don't have enough men, and the few we still have are exhausted, Mother," Grey Worm commented plainly, the dark circles underneath his eyes betraying his own exhaustion. This was a strong admission, coming from an Unsullied.  
  
"Blood of my blood, let us lead the Khalassar out of the city," Ko Pono advised. "The riders are of no use between these walls. We'll defeat your enemies the moment they set a foot on this land," he promised.  
  
"We should set sail soon if we don't want to be trapped into the port," Victarion spoke up from the chair two of his men had approached from the rest of the former and present counselors and traitors. "We sail away and shatter them, just like we did with the Yunkai."  
  
"Your Grace, I advise you not to divide your forces, thin as they are," Ser Barristan made himself heard at last. "Moreover," he added, looking defiantly around him, "I doubt that our coalition is strong enough to allow us such strategies that require trust." The old knight emphasized his last word between clenched voice had changed, had lost some of his natural deference, had gained more force and confidence. Commanding Meereen in her absence had transformed the far too obedient servant into a better counselor.  
  
"Shatter, defeat… Some of you speak as if the Volantenes were of the same kind as the Yunkai," the Imp interrupted, waddling to the center of the group to make himself heard. "I stayed against my will in this city of late, and I can tell you the force they had assembled can't be compared to the mockery of a host the Yunkai sent to Meereen." Then, turning to face Daenerys, he added with cunning eyes: "However, I have to insist on the fact that the city is rich and prosperous, even if it's only a shadow of a former glory, and that the wars, repeated plundering and incoming winter had left Westeros in dire need of grain. This attack could be your chance, in the most paradoxical way, Queen Daenerys. Force Volantis to some sort of negotiation, set sails to Westeros with ships full of food, and King's Landing will open its gates wide open, I assure you." The piece of advice was sound, but there was darkness in the dwarf's tone that intrigued Daenerys.  
  
The Meereenese's silence was deafening. The Shavepate stood motionless, still stunned from Jorah's announcement. The Green Grace's eyes were darting from a councilor to another, her expression getting more scared with each aggressive intervention. Hizdhar had collapsed against a pillar, and hid his face in his trembling hands. There would be no help and advice from those people. Daenerys contained a bitter smile. Not that long ago, they were so anxious to submerge her with their contradicting advice.  
  
Silently, the young queen walked to her throne with slow, measured steps, carefully setting her feet on the joints of the paving stones. Quietly, she ascended the steps and stopped in front of the simple bench. For a few moments, she stood there, her back to her now silent advisors. Mother, Khalessi, Grace, Queen… So many names for a same person.  
  
So much weight on her apparently frail shoulders.  
  
Yet, she was so more than that, now, and her councilors did not know it, yet. At the same time, she was a much simpler woman than the girl who paraded proudly her many names during a victorious but ephemeral campaign from Astapor to Meereen.  
  
A dragon queen, this was what she had been since the night she had confronted Drogon in the middle of the angry flames that swallowed Vaes Dothrak.  
  
The reminiscence made her look around, in search of a grey hawk, in vain… She smiled at her nonsense. How could a bird enter this audience room with no window? A faint scratching sound caught her attention nonetheless, and she noticed a smelly, famished rat coming out from some invisible hole behind the heavy drapery. Foolishly, Daenerys raised an inquisitive eyebrow, forgetting that the chances that the animal was something more than a mere rat were slim.  
  
"And you, what do you think, my bear?" she murmured.  
  
The rat shrieked, scurried to the group of advisors and Daenerys spied him as he proceeded to climb unceremoniously on the Imp's shoulder, whose angry stare betrayed his former acquaintance with such phenomenon.  
  
"Good," she whispered before turning around.  
  
"I thank you for your sound advice, my Lords. For now, my judgment is suspended and the loyalty you demonstrate over the next few days will decide your fate." She paused to consider the men and the woman facing her, one by one. "Continue to serve me and you'll be rewarded," she told Barristan, Grey Worm and her bloodriders. "Prove yourself and I'll consider your services," she watched the Imp with insistence. "Redeem yourselves and I may forgive you," she warned the others. She closed her eyes to steady her breath. When she opened them again, she fixed a cold stare on Daario and Brown Ben: "Refuse to fight, and I'll shorten your days myself."  
  
Daenerys walked down the stairs steadily, a plan already forming in her mind. "We'll convene again at dawn, and I'll give my orders. Until then, try to get some rest."  
  
Until then, she had a long lost friend to attend to.  
  
War would come soon enough.


	13. Sleepless night

  
  
For a few seconds, Daenerys remained motionless at the entrance of her chambers and contemplated the quiet scene in front of her. The cool, night wind moved the light curtains surrounding her bed soundlessly, morphing them into ghosts keeping a silent vigil on her bear. The lamp at the bedside flickered with the odd guff of wind, creating fugitive, distorted forms on the curtains, revealing Missandei's attentive form perched on a stool by the bed. The only sounds were produced by Jorah's regular breathing, the occasional moan of pain and the child plundging a piece of linen in a bowl of cool waters and drying it before tapping the knight's forehead with it.  
  
So much pain.  
  
Back in the audience room, she had displayed so much confidence, reducing her former advisors to mumbling fools, gaining new respect from Ser Barristan - she had noticed the proud approval in the old knight's eyes as she had given her orders. Yet, now, all her confidence was gone and her feet felt so heavy when she only had to make a few steps to be by her bear's side, at last.  
  
If I look back, I'm lost...  
  
Daenerys took a deep breath and forced her feet to move. As soon as she stepped into her chambers, Missandei stood up and opened her mouth to greet her mistress, as she used to do when the Mother of Dragons paraded as the Queen of Meereen. However pleased Daenerys was to be able to talk to her young confidante once more, however content she was to meet these round, faithful, friendly eyes, she motioned the child to stay silent and crossed the bedchamber with measured, soundless steps.  
  
She was no queen anymore, and thus there was no need to maintain such a meaningless protocol, at least in the privacy of her bedchamber. More importantly, the sleep of the man resting in the bed once occupied by Daario her lover and Hizdhar her husband was not to be disturbed. Her bear needed all the rest he could get before the Volantene fleet attacked the ghost of a city that Meereen had become. Without a word, the young woman joined Missandei at Jorah's bedside and sat on the bed, careful that the movement of the mattress would not wake the bandaged man – Missandei had used all her knowledge to tend the knight's many wounds and burns. In the faint light of the candles, Daenerys observed her bear and noticed the beads of perspiration forming on his forehead, the way his brow furrowed in pain, even if he was deep in sleep. On his cheek, the brand – a demon mask – left by the slavers' hands would reveal to anyone setting their eyes on his face the level of indignity to which the former lord and knight had fallen. Daenerys let a sad smile form on her lips, for the brand was also the ugly testimony of her bear's fateful pride. It was so easy to imagine him still fighting back, even when he knew that his resistance and rebellion would only bring more pain and humiliation.  
  
Would have the intransigent Eddard Stark been satisfied with such a punishment?  
  
However, under the bandages, the scars that would be inevitably left by Viserion's flames and the burning sun of Essos would prove to the world her knight's absurd faithfulness and bravery.  
  
What man in his right mind would willingly risk his life to repair the mess left by the ruler who had exiled him a few months before?  
  
Words from another life came back to Daenerys' mind…  
  
And I tell you truly, Daenerys, there is no man in all the world that will ever be half so true to you as me.  
  
That was what he had told her on this fateful night on the Balerion, the night when everything changed between them.  
  
Ser Jorah Mormont. Her far too proud and faithful bear…   
  
He had spied on her, and she had resented him for it, banished him from her side. She was a Targaryen; who could dare to spy on her, the legitimate queen, the Mother of Dragons, the Breaker of Chains?  
  
A soft moan escaped Jorah's lips, and his brow furrowed even more. His head began to thrash from side to side on the silky pillow, soaking it with sweat and blood.  
  
"I can't give him more milk of the poppy," Missandei whispered and reached for the bowl of water.  
  
Daenerys stopped the child's movement and took the linen herself, wringing it out slightly before applying it to the knight's forehead. After a while, the coolness of the water soothed the effects of the fever and Jorah's breathing returned to a more regular, soundless path. On the bed, his hairy chest – not that hairy anymore now that Viserion's flame had almost engulfed him – moved slowly to the rhythm of his inspirations that came out of his parched, slightly open lips. Long ago, she had watched Jorah fight against the fever, when she had tended to his wound in the middle of the Red Waste. Then, the mere sight of his constricted face had formed the same terrible knot in her stomach as tonight.  
  
Her success had made her forget the companion who had stayed by her side through the worst hardships. She had leaned on him heavily in the Red Waste, and discarded him like a useless crutch once she found she was able to walk on her own, supported by her new allies only.  
  
Daario's blue beard and eyes had been so fascinating. Her captain knew how to utter the words she wanted to hear, and, at that time, Jorah never said these words. He told her to be wary of new allies in time of success when she needed these people around her to witness her power, to make her forget the not so distant time when Jorah was her only support. He told her to haste her way to Westeros when she wanted to bask in the glory of her triumphant march around Slavers' Bay.  
  
She wanted to be queen, and he told her to learn. To be honest, the fateful night on the Balerion had only accelerated the decay of their relationship. Sooner or later, she would have found out his betrayal. Sooner or later, she would have decided she was powerful enough that she did not need his advice anymore.  
  
Whispered prophecies had made her want to stretch her wings before she was ready to do it. Was there a better way to avoid treason than to rule alone?  
  
The years of exile spent alongside her poor, deluded brother had convinced her of her natural superiority as a Targaryen, which the birth of the dragons and the early, unexpected success in Slaver's Bay only reinforced in her mind.  
  
Because of the warlocks' prophecy, she began to look around her with defiance.  
  
Because of the dragons' birth, she began to think she had a mission.  
  
Because of Jorah's kiss, she began to distrust his council.  
  
Because of her success, she began to believe she was a great queen.  
  
Because of Ser Barristan's revelation, she banished her most faithful companion.  
  
Yet, at the same time, she had accorded her trust to the most questionable characters, the Shavepate, Hizdhar, Daario, isolating herself from her oldest followers, locking up her dragons, pushing herself more and more into a corner… Unwanted tears began to form in her eyes as she contemplated the still form in front of her.  
  
What had she done?  
  
Daenerys shook her head. This was no time for fruitless, pointless regrets. She had been no better than the Mad King of her dreams, truly. She did not deserve such faithfulness from a man who had seen king Aerys burn Rickard Stark alive.  
  
Why was he still following her, advising her from the distance, repairing her mistakes?  
  
Did love blind Jorah to the point he ignored her fault as a ruler? There was no way she could compare to the solemn lord of the memories that Drogon had revealed in her dreams. It would not be the first time that her bear let his feelings get the better of him, of his judgment.  
  
After all, the man had sold men to please his wife.  
  
Did he really see a great ruler in her? Was it why he had put so much faith, and love, in her?  
  
Daenerys set her eyes on bandaged chest, suddenly overwhelmed by the familiar longing of pressing herself against him, of being engulfed in his strong arms. She had felt so secure in his exhausted embrace, in the middle of the throne room, hours before.  
  
She needed her bear by her side. Without him, she would never be the queen he saw in her. How had she been unable to understand such a simple fact before?  
  
Tentatively, she reached for his hand, the left one which was not bandaged and rested lazily on his stomach. Because of his ordeal under the walls of Meereen then in the desert, her knight was much leaner than in her memories. His branded and bearded cheeks were hollowed. His bones were more visible where his shoulders had only been heavy, solid muscles.  
  
The Imp had mocked Jorah, calling him a roasted bear.  
  
He was right. Before her, a roasted, exhausted, wounded, famished bear was resting, and much of this pain had been caused by one of her children, a wayward child she had locked up, forgotten, abandoned. To be true, she did not deserve to call herself Mother of Dragons anymore.  
  
Under her fingers, Jorah's hand flexed tentatively, curling itself around her smaller one. When Daenerys lifted her eyes to his face, she met a pair of dark, attentive eyes, and the faintest smile on his lips. As if the mere sight of her was enough to relieve him, he closed his lids once more, his fingers firmly wrapped around hers, maintaining her hand where it was, on his stomach.  
  
And the queen watched her bear as he slept.


	14. Dragon Queen

"You should rest, Ser," the commander of the Queensguard insisted. For the first time since their encounter in Qarth, there was no irony or latent contempt in the old knight's voice as he addressed Jorah by his title. Obviously, being foolish enough to defy a raging dragon from the decaying wall of a fallen city had made Jorah worthy of being recognized as a knight by the Barristan the Brave. This particular exploit and what ensued – the near burning followed by the near drowning then the near insolation – also made the old knight wary of Jorah's ability to fight a mere few days after his miraculous return to Meereen.  
  
To be honest, Jorah was not sure himself if he could even lift a sword, but it did not stop him from contradicting his once rival vehemently.  
  
Twice exiled, enslaved and nearly swallowed by the flames from the seven hells... Jorah had not learned anything.  
  
 _Too proud for his own good._  
  
On his left, Jorah felt the weight of the Imp's ironic inspection and had to restrain himself from making the half-man spit some more teeth. He closed his fist and grimaced immediately.  
  
It was as if his body had grown too large for his own skin, and the merest movement was torture.  
  
How could he fight in such a shape?  
  
Selmy had seen it, Daenerys had noticed it. Seven hells, even the Imp knew it!  
  
However, in front of their incredulous stares, Jorah maintained that he felt well enough to fight against the Volantenes and, blind to their concern, deaf to the complaints of his own body, growled to be given a bloody sword.  
  
A pair of purple eyes studied him intently from the simple bench where the Queen listened to her counselors, painfully reminding him of the past moment when his stubbornness had condemned him in this very room, and he almost relented. He was about to recognize his own foolishness when her orders finally resounded, loud and clear, leaving no room to contest.  
  
"Ser Barristan, you will give Ser Jorah a sword. You will lead the defense of the walls with Grey Worm and your Unsullied. Lord Tyrion and the Second Sons will make sure that good order is respected within the walls. We cannot afford to be weakened by some inner trouble. Half of the Ironborn will make sail without delay. Let's have the Volantene believe we are divided more than we really are. You will wait for the city's signal and attack the Volantene float. The others will help to defend the city walls. Fight faithfully, and you debt will considered repaid, Victarion Greyjoy."  
  
"If you promise to kill my brother Euron and put my niece Asha on her father's Chair, I'll give my life for you, Queen Daenerys."  
  
The assistance gasped at such audacity but Jorah only snorted.  
  
 _Typical speech from an Ironborn._  
  
"Do you want me to take revenge on your brother for you?" the Queen replied coolly.  
  
Indirect kinslaying was still kinslaying.  
  
"I want you to save our people, because I can see now that Euron is leading us to our doom," Victarion kept his eyes fixed on the ground. ashamed of his admission.  
  
 _Typical Victarion, preferring to sacrifice his life than revolt against his family._  
  
"If your men sear to take my army whenever I wish, for as long as I wish, I'll grant wish, Victarion Greyjoy."  
  
Suddenly Jorah was reminded of an expression Maester Aemon used when he had visited his father at the Wall as a young lord of Bear Island.  
  
"Jorah, kill the boy and let the man be born…" More than his father's gruff advice, it had been these words that had helped him to be a decent lord, at least until he met Lynesse… Maester Aemon had neglected to tell him that the boy could never be killed totally, and would always lurk in the darkness, eagerly waiting for the man's unavoidable moment of weakness.  
  
Somewhere in the Dothraki Sea, Daenerys had shattered the last remnants of the girl inside her.  
  
Daenerys turned to her kos and spoke in Dothraki. "Blood of my blood, prepare your horses and arakhs. You will stay in the city for now and charge once the dragon has feasted on our enemies."  
  
"Khaleesi! We cannot content ourselves with…" The once Khal Pono who was a Ko once more spoke up angrily.  
  
"Enough!" The word came out strong as a whip. "Blood of my blood, you will do as I order."  
  
The queen who had exiled him months before had been a girl who played at being a Dragon Queen. The woman who calmly assigned duties to her counselors was the Dragon Queen, in ways that everybody but Jorah still blissfully ignored.  
  
"I will retreat to my chamber and Ser Jorah will see that nobody disturbs me."  
  
As soon as she had uttered her commands, he knew what she intended to do. A wave of irrational worry almost made him protest publicly, even if the short exchange between Daenerys and her ko should have convinced him otherwise. Her plan was the only one possible. Meereen and her heteroclite troops of defenders were far too exhausted to withstand a new siege. Granaries were empty, water was scarce or corrupted. The pale mare still took its toll on the weakest, and men were divided between Meereenese, Unsullied, remnants of the Yunkish host or the Iron Born fleet, Dothraki raiders… Even Daenerys' charisma was not enough to make them unite against the newest enemy.  
  
Only the dragon could.  
  
Only the black dread feasting on the Volantene troops could give hope and unite men who had been fighting one another for the past months.  
  
Riding Drogon would be too dangerous, and none of her advisors, Jorah included, would have let her. No amount of dark flames would shelter her from a flying arrow. The most insignificant injury to an arm or a leg could lead her to a fatal fall to the ground. The dragon was protected by his scales, she was not.  
  
Retiring to her chambers and dream was the only solution.  
  
However, she had barely discovered her powers. Dragons were no common animals. Warging into one of them during battle could be her death…  
  
A purple stare in his direction killed the words on his tongue, but, faithful to his worst flaws, he stared back intently, trying to silently convey his worries, his objections. Eyes full of pity lowered to fix on his bandaged hand and a small, gently teasing grin formed on her lips.  
  
Jorah lowered his head, ashamed. Unlike the other men around him, he was unable to kneel to signify his obedience.  
  
"As you wish, my Queen."  
  
The Dragon Queen would hear his objections and accept his sword the day he was healed. Until then, she would see that no soldier came to him.  
  
 _That no enemy came to harm him._  
  
The other advisors got up and went to their tasks. As he stayed behind, dutifully following his orders, Jorah's eyes crossed Daenerys' stare once more. The queen had stood up and left her thrones to join her knight. The faintest worry tainted her cold assurance now, and je could tell she silently sought for his support.  
  
He waited for the Imp to hobble out of the room, ignoring the curious, mismatched eyes that examined the queen and her knight before allowing himself to touch her forearm gently – a gesture he had made so often in the Dothraki Sea then in the Red Waste, a gesture she accepted once more, much to his relief.  
  
"I will protect you from your dreams, my Queen."  
  
Reassured, she straightened up and walked decidedly past the door.


	15. Conflicting memories

After so many days of scorching heat, the light breeze coming from the sea felt like a benediction from the gods. On the walls of Meereen, even the Unsullied sentinels, still under the merciless sun, tilted their heads in the direction of the sea, offering their faces to the caress of the wind, letting out imperceptible sighs of relief. Ser Barristan, who did not possess the same inhumane level of control as the legendary slave soldiers, had removed both his plate armor and chain mail, carefully placing them at his feet, close to his sword, only keeping a threadbare tunic. The old knight had believed that years of impassible service in the moist heat of King's Landing would have prepared him to endure anything.

He was wrong.

Wordlessly, Barristan let the wind caress his tired, battered body, dry the ever present sticky layer of sweat on his back and clothes, relieve the constant burning of the skin of his nose and ears. Essos was an entirely different kind of hell. The heat burnt more. The people lied more. The politics were even more sordid. If King's Landing was a viper's nest, what could be said of Slavers' Bay and the descendants of Old Ghys?

Gods be good, the young Queen seemed decided to leave this place built on lies and deceit behind, at last. Of course, they needed to survive the impending Volantene attack before even thinking about sailing back to Westeros and its own kind of lies and deceit. Barristan's stare wandered around to observe the army that was supposed to defend Meereen against this new threat.

Exhausted Unsullied.

Undisciplined Dothraki.

Untrustworthy sellswords.

Scared Meereenese.

Lost Krakens.

This heteroclite army would break when the first Volantene soldier put a foot on the city's walls, if they did not disband at the first crack in the walls. Of course, they would resist, at first. But, in the absence of genuine cohesion, they would flee for their lives sooner than later, only leaving the Unsullied and a handful of fools behind.

For now, only Queen Daenerys glued this disparate army together. But for how long? The Commander of the Queensguard had placed all his faith in the young ruler, and had been rewarded by her triumphant return with a tamed dragon and a whole khalassar. Terror and admiration had replaced distrust and defiance in the hearts of the Meereenese and the minds of the sellswords. Even the Ironborn seemed ready to follow the Queen in this new battle. Yet, in spite of all the faith the old knight had placed in the queen, the seasoned warrior in him could not help but question the strength of this new unlikely alliance.

After all, he had witnessed far stronger hosts disband so frighteningly easily, once the central piece was removed. A single angry, heinous blow of a warhammer had sent the Targaryen host fleeing, soldiers scattering between the trees of the Trident like the rubies on Prince Rhaegar's armor fell into the river.

Chaos was everywhere. A little less than fifty yards from him, Barristan could see Prince Rhaegar clad in his black armor fighting against Robert, the antlers on his helmet making him unmistakable on the battleground. The Kingsguard muttered under his breath. He had let the Northerner drag him too far away from his post, he had to hurry to go back and join his fellow guards who were battling against a group led by Eddard Stark.

Why in Seven Hells had Prince Rhaegar decided to leave Oswell Whent, Arthur Dayne and, more importantly, their Commander Gerold Hightower? Had they been there, the heads of the Rebellion would already have been cut! 

Satisfied that the Northerner's sword had been sent flying out of the man's reach, and that his sword arm was covered in blood, Barristan began to turn around in order to run back to his prince, entrusting the end of the fight to two eager Dornishmen.

He had barely progressed through the bloody mud that an angry hawk attacked him, aiming at his eyes through the helmet, blinding him, blocking his path. Behind him, two men let out cries of agonizing pain.

"Not so fast, Selmy!" a deep voice resounded clearly.

The man had removed his helmet. A dark bruise had formed on his temple, where Barristan's sword had connected with the helmet earlier. His left eye was almost closed under the swelling. His right arm was covered in blood. His only weapon was the shield he held with both his hands.

He was no fit to fight a knight like Barristan.

Yet, here he stood in the middle of the battleground, defying him, his purpose clear: the Kingsguard would not fight by his prince's side this day.

And a bloody mess ensued. Barristan's sword flew and cut, but never left a serious wound. In the Northerner's hands, the green shield was a deadlier weapon than a sword. His blows were brutal, furious, without skill or finesse, but their violence made Barristan's arm tremble more and more under the strain. 

And there was this bloody hawk, harassing the Kingsguard, knowing when to attack and when to retreat, as if…

And in this fight of attrition, Barristan was the first to stumble, struggling to catch his breath. Under the helmet, the sweat burnt his eyes. The Northerner, however, seemed to get stronger with each exchange, forgetting about the pain, the hint of a smile forming on his lips, his right, open eyes getting greener and greener and greener…

Barristan had not noticed the damn root under the mud. When he realized why he could not move his right leg, it was too late. The edge of the Northerner's shield connected with his helmet, breaking his nose. Blood filled his nostrils as another blow hit his knee, obliging him to stumble to keep his footing, exposing his upper body in the process. Finally, a sharp pain accompanied the unmistakable sound of bones crushing. Under the deformed steel, the bone had pierced the flesh.

And the Kingsguard fell to the ground, powerless as he saw the warhammer rise one last time, so close and so far away at the same time. Next to him, the man holding the green shield with a black bear was still standing and shouted orders: "Maege! Thorgal! Askeladd! To me! Don't pursuit! Stay by Lord Stark!"

The old knight had been too confident, too eager to rush to his prince's help, and he had underestimated his opponent. The Northmen's sword-skills were lacking but they had many other qualities. By the time he had realized that Jorah Mormont had not crossed his path by chance, it was too late. This day, Barristan learnt that other skills than swordmanship led to victory on the battle ground.

The events that had followed Prince Rhaegar's death were another bitter proof of the fragility of a kingdom. Everything had fallen down like a mere castle of cards. The Targaryens had lost their power and their authority, Tywin Lannister had made his decision, at last, and a three centuries old dynasty had turned into dust.

Barristan shook his head sadly. Even with the relief offered by the sea breeze, the burning Essos sun made his tired mind wander into unwanted places and times. Gathering his sword and armor, the old knight looked around from his post on the city walls in search of some shade. The base of the East Tower seemed to offer some shade, and still gave him a good view of the bay before Meereen. As he walked to his new observing post, Barristan considered the Unsullied sentinels. The very idea of their training and their existence even still made him sick to the stomach, yet, during his time with them, marching a their side, fighting alongside them, he had grown admirative of these fierce warriors.

If Meereen was to be his last battle, dying at their side, for the true Targaryen queen, was not such a distressing prospect.

Under the biting sun, he ascended the stiff stairs leading to the East Tower slowly, careful not to tire himself too much. That scum Daario was right when he mocked him of his old age. Of course, Barristan had proved the sell-sword that even Ser Grandfather was able to teach him a lesson or two in a sword fight. However, there was no denying his best years were behind him: if he wanted to fight at his best against the Volantene, he had to spare his body.

There was no point in exhausting himself before a single Volantene soldier ever put a foot on the Meereenese shore.

With a heavy sigh, he let his armor fall at his feet and relished the faint relief provided by the shade. How much he longed for a good rainy day! In his younger days in the Dornish Marches, autumn always had been his favorite season. The sun was still high in the sky when rain and cold engulfed the rest of Westeros, but its rays were warm on the skin, not burning, the nights were cool and sudden showers of rain left a heady scent of wet ground in their wake. The old knight felt so far away from his home. His skin ached to feel the droplets of an afternoon rain shower. His fingers ached to touch the dewdrops on the rosebushes by the Commander tower. His nose even ached to smell the damp stench of Flee Bottom at the end of an autumn day.

He wanted to go home.

An alarmed shout resounded and a bell started ringing.

The Volantene fleet was here.

Barristan sighed and put his armor back on, careful to adjust the leather belts so that they would not impede his movements. Slowly, calmly, he took his sword and joined his Unsullied on the walls.

He wanted nothing more than to go home, but at the same time, he had sworn to never fail his sovereign again.

He wanted to go home, but he could feel that Meereen would be his grave.


	16. Another battle

For the third time since he had begun the ascent of the stairs leading to the Queen's chambers, Tyrion stopped to catch his breath and relax his cramping legs. The world of sovereigns and noblemen in their imposing castles was unforgiving for dwarves. Wherever he went and tried to occupy a function befitting his birth, in Casterly Rock, in the Tower of the Hand, in the Great Pyramid of Meereen, the same stairs leading to the same chambers symbolically placed in the highest floors of the castle defied him and his short legs, mocking him, reminding that in spite of all his best efforts, he would never be a part of this world.  
  
He was the Imp after all, the monster, the drunken dwarf known in all the brothels in Westeros, from the Wall to the Dornish Marches.  
  
Tyrion turned around as his breathing returned to a more normal rhythm. A few steps downwards, the guards who had let him pass, not without rubbing his head first, still considered him with undisguised amusement, surely betting on whether his efforts would result in his actually reaching the terrace. The last rays of the setting sun painted Meereen with bright shades of gold and red. If one only looked at the West and ignored the commotion produced by the Volantene armies settling on the shore, this could be considered as a beautiful sight. As expected, the Meereenese efforts to stop the Volantene fleet from disembarking had been half-hearted at best, more for show than anything; in their situation, Queen Daenerys' troops had to choose only the battles they could win. The real battle would come soon enough, and this upcoming one they could not afford to lose.  
  
Winning the battle – or, at least, not losing it, this was the very purpose for this humiliating ascension. He needed to share some concerns about the defenses of the city with Mormont and, if possible, the Queen, privately. Clenching his teeth against the pain the climbing movement caused to his far too short legs by the ill-adjusted armor, Tyrion resumed his progression, his eyes fixed on the approaching terrace.  
  
Behind him, the din of the city down below underlined the urgency of the late preparations for this unexpected battle. Men shouted, horses neighed, shields and swords clashed, wagons rolled, boots stomped. Tyrion stopped for the fourth time. With a little bit of luck, more than the half of them would survive to see the sunset tomorrow.  
  
With a little bit of luck…  
  
Seven Hells! He hated these moments. War was not for dwarves. War was bad for Imps, and weak people as a whole. If he focused enough, he still could smell the acrid smoke emanating from the destroyed Lannister fleet in the first days of the Greyjoy rebellion. If he focused enough, the terror that had paralyzed him as a child would submerge him once again. At the same time, he could not help but feel more alive than ever, more useful, as well, in the more paradoxical way. During the weeks that had preceded Stannis' attack of King's Landing, Tyrion had relished this grand game of cyvasse, and found out he quite enjoyed it.  
  
He had felt important.  
  
And now, even knowing the ugly reality behind the game – looking at his face in the mirror every morning was a constant, powerful reminder – he felt alive.  
  
Frightened, but alive.  
  
In order to stay alive a little bit longer, and maybe enjoy another game, in Westeros this time, preferably against Cersei, he had to climb those damn last ten steps.  
  
Nine.  
  
Eight.  
  
Seven.  
  
Six.  
  
"A little help, Imp?" a gruff voice resounded from above, accompanied by an extended hand.  
  
Tyrion snorted. The Essos sun might have made the knight's brain boil more than a little if the man proposed to help without any prompting.  
  
Five.  
  
Four.  
  
"Can you afford to lend a hand, Ser Bear? You better be careful. This morning, you did not seem so assured of your footing." Tyrion would be damned before he asked for a roasted bear's assistance.  
  
Three.  
  
"As you wish, Imp," the knight growled as he turned back from the edge of the terrace. Mormont's rare movements of generosity usually were short-lived, at least in Tyrion's experience.  
  
Two.  
  
"Instead," he called out, "if you could have a flagon of wine ready, I would appreciate it, very much."  
  
One.  
  
"I need to talk to you, and to the Queen as well."  
  
Tyrion smiled inwardly. He had made it without anyone's help.  
  
"The Queen is in her bath," Mormont commented sharply.  
  
And you wish you could be there with her, don't you Ser Bear?  
  
"Well, it makes no matter. I'll speak to you first," Tyrion dismissed the rebuttal as he waddled past his companion of captivity, to a table where a frugal dinner was served for two persons.  
  
Figs and bread.  
  
Wine.  
  
Two plates.  
  
Two glasses.  
  
Obviously, the Queen had given Mormont a little more than her pardon and renewed trust. No wonder the Northerner seemed willing to get rid of this inopportune presence as soon as possible.  
  
No such luck my friend. I'll stay as long as I need to make my point, and a little longer.  
  
Turning his back on the glare, Tyrion helped himself to a generous glass of a wine, and took a chair. Ever the host, the dwarf poured another glass and patted the other chair.  
  
"Now, let's talk, shall we?"  
  
Mormont snorted, shaking his head.  
  
"You can't help yourself."  
  
"Well, considering that ever since we met I've been on my best behavior and never set a foot near a brothel, you can accept my indulging in a little wine while we speak."  
  
Tyrion patted the chair once more.  
  
With a sigh, Mormont joined him with measured movements. Even if he tried to hide it, the knight was still in great pain. Tyrion gave him time to compose himself once more, to reach for the glass of wine. When it became obvious that the knight ignored the beverage in front of him, the dwarf let his smile disappear and shared his concerns, at last.  
  
"Did you see the horns the Volantene unloaded a few hours earlier?"  
  
"Aye."  
  
"They look very familiar…"  
  
"Aye."  
  
"And the hissing arrows? Same function, you think?"  
  
"Probably. My people use the same to scare white bears away, and worse creatures, away, when they go whale hunting on the Frozen Shore."  
  
"It isn't going to go as planned, is it?"  
  
"A battle rarely does, Imp."  
  
That, Tyrion had learned the hard way, under the walls of King's Landing.  
  
"So what do we do, if we cannot count on the Queen's dragon?"  
  
For a little while, Mormont remained silent, as if he did not have any answer. Was his faith in the Queen so blind that he had not considered another plan? Tyrion observed the knight, his tired features, his bandaged left hand, the dark circle under his eyes. Maybe he was asking too much from the man.  
  
"You're the great player of cyvasse, Imp. What do we do when we can rely on the best army in Essos, perpendicular streets and the advantage of the pyramids?" Mormont murmured.  
  
Tyrion smiled.  
  
"We set a second line of defense in the form of a trap."  
  
"And take Ben with you so he can show you a passage in the sewers. Make sure to send a few trusty men outside. They'll be our eyes and ears."  
  
Behind them, feminine voices came closer. Obviously, the Queen was finished with her bath.  
  
Tyrion gulped down the last of his wine, and hoped down his chair.  
  
"I thought you wanted to talk to the Queen, Imp," Mormont asked as he straightened up with a grimace.  
  
"I've much work to do, Ser Bear, to organize our defenses, and I trust you to share our concerns with her," the dwarf replied, waddling away.  
  
Enjoy this night, Ser Bear, we may not see another.


	17. Remembrance

Daenerys accepted the simple linen dress that Irri offered her, then she let Jhiqui arrange her hair in a simple style. She would never concede this to Jorah, but the bath her handmaiden had prepared for her made her feel so much better. Until then, she had not realized how tired she really was after weeks riding across the Dothraki Sea. The tension in small of her back which had been her constant companion for days had miraculously vanished. Yet, at first, Daenerys had protested against Jorah's advice, almost as an old habit, she was tempted to say. She did not need a bath on the eve of a decisive battle against Volantis, she was not that kind of queen anymore, she did not want to be that sort of ruler anymore who soaked in scented baths prepared by her obedient handmaiden and nibbled figs as she contemplated the sunset on her city of Meereen.  
  
This was the past.  
  
Since her return to Meereen, she had made ablutions, of course, but only to wash away the dirt and sweat. She had refused to indulge herself in a hot, scented bath. When she had manifested her vehement protest against this ridiculous idea, a small grin had formed on her bear's lips, and he had replied that she should enjoy the comfort of a bath as long as she could. The following days would not give her such luxury, surely. His voice was soft, respectful, but there was a hint of worry in his dark, tired eyes, and his usual stubbornness.  
  
He still treated her as his cub.  
  
In the past, she would have rebelled against what she resented as an unbearably paternalistic behavior unbefitting a faithful knight advising his queen. These days were long gone now, and she knew how well-founded her bear's advice was, even if spoken in the most awkward way. So she had relented, not without a bargain of her own. She would have her bath if he would share her dinner. In spite of his injuries, he participated more than he should have in the preparation of the defenses, and she knew he had barely eaten all day. Satisfied with her appearance, and the message of elegant simplicity the light dress, the hair style and the silver necklace conveyed, Daenerys dismissed her handmaiden gently, telling them to get some rest before the upcoming battle because they would be needed to tend to the injured.  
  
Then, she crossed the bedchamber with quick, decided steps. On the terrace, Jorah was waiting for her, his back to the chamber, his eyes lost in the horizon. Under his tunic, the bandages that she knew covered his arms, shoulders and back were a reminder of his recent ordeal. Yet, at the same time, it was difficult to imagine it was the same feverish man who had rested in her bed the night before. She let a smile form on her lips. Her bear was a strong and stubborn man, and he never stayed down very long. In the Red Waste, he had hidden the extent of his hip injury, enduring days after days the pain and the growing infection. He had protested when she had decided to take care of him properly. For a night or two, he had worried her so much, his fever high, the stench emanating from the cut nauseating. Then, one morning, he had woken up as if nothing had ever happened, the only evidence of his ordeal being the slight limp that had lasted until they left Qarth. As in that not so distant past, Jorah displayed a rather confounding endurance, and she remembered how the Imp had told her that, in spite of the vicious beatings Jorah had received during their enslavement, the knight had forgotten all his pains the moment his hand had closed on the handle of sword once again.  
  
Daenerys approached with measured steps.  
  
"I think I told you to get some rest, Ser Jorah," she spoke softly, reminding him of their bargain.  
  
"I am resting, my Queen," he answered. "My skin just does not agree too much with a sitting position."  
  
She walked closer, and noticed the already filled glass waiting for her. Jorah was playing with an empty cup.  
  
"Did I linger too long in my bath, Ser? Did you grow impatient?" she teased him, approaching the cup from her lips.  
  
"The Imp invited himself," he explained with a frown, displaying the cup he was toying with.  
  
"What for?"  
  
This was doubly intriguing. Why would the Imp talk to Jorah privately? Why was Jorah so tolerant of the Lannister creature?  
  
"Sharing the very same concerns I already shared with you earlier, about the horns."  
  
So, this little bit of information had not gone by unnoticed. Daenerys grimaced as she sat down. This was worrying. If the people in Meereen learnt that the black dragon might not be as efficient as promised, the troops would disband instantly.  
  
"Don't worry, your Grace, the Imp is an intelligent man, and he wants to go back to Westeros almost as badly as we do. He will think about a plan," Jorah said as he sat down, slowly, carefully. "He defended King's Landing against Stannis Baratheon, from what I heard."  
  
"Is this why you decided to bring him to me?"  
  
"I beg your pardon?"  
  
"His intelligence, is this why you brought the Imp to me?"  
  
Jorah remained silent for a while and finally decided that the cup used by the Imp was good enough for him. He helped himself some wine and took a fig, munching absently.  
  
"His intelligence, his information…" he trailed on. "The Hightowers used to say that the Imp had inherited his father's wits. And there are many tales about his inability to hold his tongue. Some say that, if drunk enough, he would be able to defy the Mountain."  
  
"You wanted me to hear what he had to tell about my family, didn't you?"  
  
"Among other things, aye."  
  
They silently watched the sun lower behind the hills, sipping their wine, eating their meager dinner. It was as if they were back in the Red Waste or the Dothraki Sea, when his mere silent presence gave her so much comfort.  
  
Yet, he had betrayed her.  
  
Or had he betrayed his past allegiance?  
  
"Why did you write to Varys?" she blurted out suddenly.  
  
She already knew, thanks to Drogon, but she needed to hear it from Jorah's lips. The knight closed his eyes, his features suddenly hardened by conflicting emotions. Now that the sun had almost disappeared, the wind was almost too fresh, and she felt goosebump form on the skin of her forearms.  
  
"At first, the idea of seeing your brother cross the Narrow Sea with an army of Dothraki was unbearable, especially when your pregnancy strengthened the bond between your family and Khal Drogo."  
  
Daenerys smiled sadly. At the time, she had been nothing but a pawn. At the time, Jorah had not betrayed her, he had betrayed her brother more than anything. After all, he had sworn his sword to Viserys, not her, in the beginning.  
  
"Then, when we were lost in Qarth…"  
  
A whirlwind of furtive images and words came back to her mind. For the first time in her life, Daenerys had felt like a queen when the doors of the city of wonders had opened before her and her three dragons. She had claimed her rights, loudly, only to be manipulated, ignored, like the child she was. Then, Strong Belwas and Arstan had appeared from nowhere, with three strong ships.  
  
"I suppose I… I figured it was a way to get out of this city."  
  
One day, they were stuck at the other end of the world, farthest from Westeros than they had ever been, and the next day, they had sailed away, to the West.  
  
Daenerys studied her silent companion, the frown on his face as he most probably considered the fateful decision that had led him to his exile.  
  
Had he betrayed her at all? Was helping a still inocent and incompetent ruler without their knowledge a betrayal or an act worthy of praise? For a moment, she remained silent as well, as she remembered the day when she banished her most faithful advisor.  
  
Her best friend, and more.  
  
Jorah had not been the most respectful advisor, but she had not been the most understanding ruler either.  
  
"Why did you decide to help me?" she pressed on.  
  
Another long, pensive silence.  
  
"You aren't your father. You aren't any of your brothers," he began pensively. "To be honest, you remind me of Lord Rickard."  
  
The last admission had been almost inaudible.  
  
"You admired him, didn't you?"  
  
"I would have died for his vision."  
  
Daenerys studied her companion's face. In the growing darkness, the demon mask looked even more frightening than in plain daylight. She reached a tentative hand to his branded cheek. Rather unexpectedly, he did not flinch nor react at all.  
  
His memories had stolen him from her.  
  
"And you endured so much for mine, even if I chased you away," she admitted shamefully.  
  
A rueful smile formed on his lips. Once, he had told her he had lived for Lynesse's smiles, and Daenerys could not deny how the way her chest constricted when the gruff man's lips curved slowly upwards and lines appeared near his eyes, especially when she was the one elliciting such scarce reaction.  
  
"I am a stubborn man. Always have been. Always will be."  
  
"Here I stand," she mused. Rarely a house motto had been so apt.  
  
Jorah snorted.  
  
"Brandon and Lyanna always mocked me for my stubbornness."  
  
"Not Ned Stark?"  
  
"I barely knew him. Lord Rickard had sent him to the Eyrie, to be fostered by Jon Aryn, along with Robert."  
  
The seed of the rebellion.  
  
Daenerys smiled, fugitive images coming back to her mind.  
  
"You made quite the pair, with Brandon Stark, I mean."  
  
Jorah turned around brusquely, surprised.  
  
"Dragons are formidable beasts, when you don't use magic tricks to tame them."  
  
In the shadows, a well-known expression of wonder appeared on his face. It was the same expression he had worn when she had given birth to her dragons.  
  
"So I see," he murmured. "So I see…"  
  
"What about Lyanna?" she blurted out after another long silence. She had learnt many things, but Drogon had been unable to answer her questions.  
  
Jorah let out a long, sad sigh.  
  
"She took her secret into her grave, I'm afraid. All I know… All I know is that she never would have risked the safety of the North just for your brother's eyes, as beautiful they were. She loved her father too much for that, even if he was willing to marry her to a man like Robert. She knew Brandon too well not to anticipate his reaction."  
  
The night was complete now, and Daenerys could not see his face anymore. Only his movements as he reached for a fig and more wine evidenced his presence by her side. After a while, it became evident Jorah would not talk anymore about this sore subject. Daenerys took her bear's uninjured hand.  
  
"Let's get some rest, my bear. We have a battle to fight tomorrow."  
  
Without a word of protest, he let her lead him across the faintly lit chamber, to the bed he had occupied the night before. She sensed more than she heard his sudden hesitation.  
  
"Let's get some sleep," she repeated calmly. "I thought I had lost you forever. I'm not letting you out of my sight if I can help it, especially when you are as injured as you are currently," she insisted, more forcefully than she had really wanted.  
  
Her bear must have been very tired, for all form of protest died on his tongue. His eyes almost closed, he disposed of his belt and boots before collapsing on the bed, face first in the pillows. Daenerys had not reached her side of the bed when a soft snoring resounded in the vast queenchamber.


	18. A mousetrap

In the depths of the Great Pyramid of Meereen, Tyrion patiently studied the men in front of him. The flickering light of the candles and torches projected dancing shadows on the ochre walls. Behind him, Grey Worm and his Unsullied remained perfectly still, waiting for his command, whatever it was.  
  
 _Kill the prisoners._  
  
 _Torture them._  
  
 _Frighten them._  
  
 _Follow them through the city's subterranean labyrinth._  
  
 _Stand on one foot while quacking like ducks._  
  
There was something utterly fascinating and unnerving about the Unsullied. Mormont liked to repeat that they were the best infantry in the world. From the way they had fearlessly accomplished their part of the plan that led to the white dragon's demise, Tyrion tended to agree with this affirmation. Such complete obedience and organization would prove most useful for the trap that was slowly taking form in his mind. Yet, at the same time, he could not help to shudder at the idea of something, anything going wrong.  
  
How would the Unsullied react if their leaders were proven wrong in their strategies?  
  
Tyrion cleared his throat, taking advantage of the echo for dramatic purposes. This was not the time for hesitation, he had to convince the men in front of him that their only chance to see another day was to help him in his crazy plan.  
  
"Now, my dear Lords and Captains," he began, suppressing a smile. "I do hope that you have a clear understanding of our situation."  
  
The enemy was at the city gate, and the chances of surviving the ordeal were slim, but for the first time since his days as Hand of the King, he never felt so alive. Had his father felt the same mix of excitement and cold clarity when preparing his battles and strategies in Westeros?  
  
"Betraying the Queen's cause will not help you at all," he went on, stressing on every word of his last sentence.  
  
Their only chance of survival rested on this very idea, that the only way to get out of this monstrous mess was to follow the Dragon Queen to the bitter end of this battle. Letting his words sink in, Tyrion fixed his mismatched eyes on the rather defiant sell-swords first. Brown Ben looked anywhere but at Tyrion, biting his lips, deep in reflection.  
  
Sorry Ben, think and ponder as much as you wish, but there is no way out this time.  
  
The once glorious Daario Naharis, captain of the Stormcrows and lover of the Dragon Queen, presented an even more pathetic image. The stench coming from his cut hand got worse day after day, his face was ashen and beads of perspiration betrayed his feverish state. Since the battle against the Yunkai, the dye had gone from his hair that returned to their natural color, a most common shade of brown. By his side, his lieutenants who were supposed to help and watch him as he walked around in the Great Pyramid openly considered the Tyroshi captain as a mere obstacle to be removed from their path.  
  
If the Volantenes did not kill him, one of his men definitely would.  
  
Contrary to Mormont and Selmy, Tyrion had no reason to hate or despise the sell-sword, so he could not help to empathize a little with the man's fate. Raised far too high thanks to a ruler's favor, Naharis had burnt his wing and would never recover from his fall. He had played, believed he had won for an instant, just before falling flat on his face.  
  
Yet another sacrifice on the altar of ambition.   
  
Truly, the game of thrones was merciless for anyone, the rich and the poor, the cunning and the idiot, the powerful and the weak. With a little bit of luck, Tyrion would come out of this mess alive, and he would be the one to teach this valuable lesson to his beloved sister.  
  
"My plan is very simple, in fact. From the tales I heard about the Harpy," the dwarf began to explain, turning his attention to the Meereenese. "There are tunnels underground that helped you to harass the Unsullied, effectively trapping them within the city walls. Am I right?"  
  
The three heads of the Harpy exchanged furtive glances, playing their own comedy in the dancing shadows. The Shavepate kept a stubborn silence while the Green Grace's face remained unreadable. Hizdhar, the once king of Meereen, looked as if he would throw up any time.  
  
"The Unsullied will close the streets surrounding the main one coming from the great gate," Tyrion motioned the men to come closer to the table on which he had displayed a rough map of the city. "There, there and there," he went on, putting little stones on the designed streets. "This will be the theoretical limit of our mousetrap, that is, until you give me the information I need."  
  
He stopped his explanation to focus once more on the Meereenese. Hizdhar's face was covered with beads of sweat, and the Shavepate had started to stamp his left foot.  
  
Good.  
  
"Within the confines of this trap, we'll hide archers in the houses and set barricades to lead the flow of our assailants where we want to, divide them and finally smash them. If I remember correctly, I believe that Yin Yao Khan, a war theorist from Qarth, called this a turtle. Don't ask me why, though." Tyrion repressed another smile. He had always known that his reading in Castle Rock and King's Landing would come handy, one day.  
  
"Why would you need our help in the city, dwarf?" Daario asked defiantly, managing to show off a glimpse of his past bravado. "The Queen needs every fighting man on the walls, not in the city."  
  
"My dear captain," Tyrion replied calmly, stopping himself from rolling his eyes. Everywhere he went, he had to meet with such idiotic courtesans who did not know when to keep their mouths shut. "Dare I hope you are quite familiar with the basic notion of a second line of defense? This is what the purpose of the turtle is, setting a second line, in case the first line break at some point."  
  
Tyrion looked around once more.  
  
"I know what you are thinking, my Lords," he went on, ignoring the sell-sword to focus on the Meereenese. "Why give our dear secret labyrinth away to prepare a defense that would not be needed after all?"  
  
The grimace on Hizdhar's face and the way the Green Grace's eyes widen slightly told Tyrion all he needed to know. He snorted as he drew invisible patterns on the map with his index finger. How in Seven Hells did these idiots manage to deceive the Queen? Rulers were such strange people, ready to believe anything told with the sufficient amount of respect and deference, blind to the deceptions building around them. Ned Stark then the Young Wolf had paid for this mistake with their lives. Joffrey had choked to death the day of his wedding. The great Tywin Lannister died with his pants around his ankles. The Mad King died at one of his Kingsguard's hand. The scar on Tyrion's face was the permanent reminder that he had succumbed himself to this fatal flaw.  
  
He would be damned before he repeated the same mistake.  
  
For a while, he remained silent, letting his words sink in. Behind him, the flame of a candle burnt brighter before disappearing, only replaced by the distinct smell of burning wax. The darkness grew in the depths of the Great Pyramid as another candle burnt out. Behind him, the Unsullied remained silent. In front of him, ragged breath betrayed the growing uneasiness. Taking advantage of the dimming light, Tyrion motioned Grey Worm and his Unsullied to make their move. Slowly, they left their post to walk to the prisoners and stop behind them.  
  
"Now, my dear Captains and Lords, let me tell you one last thing. There are only two outcomes for you. You fight with us and you might live. You don't, and you die this night, in the worst ways imaginable. Did I tell you I was a very curious reader?"  
  
 _See, Father, I am your heir. Not Jaime. Not Cersei. I am._


	19. The weight of the sword

The stars had hardly begun to fade in the East, and the sky was still ink dark. Within the walls of Meereen, a deep silence only interrupted by the occasional dog bark and the measured steps of the sentinels reigned over the city under siege. Beyond the walls, the chaos that had followed the Volantene fleet's arrival earlier this day and well into the night had finally quiet down.  
  
 _The calm before the storm, they called it._  
  
Both sides gathered their strength, licked their wounds, and swallowed their fears in the dead of the night.  
  
In this deafening silence – one could have the impression that Meereenese and Volantenes were holding their breath, literally – the Queensguard's controlled footsteps echoed in the empty streets, sounding almost sacrilegious. In spite of all his experience as knight and Commander of the White Cloaks, Barristan Selmy had never managed to break one bad habit. Since his days as an impetuous squire, the proximity of battle had always made his blood boil with excitement. For all his talk about honor and dedication to a just cause, he was as bad as the Kingslayer.  
  
The thought of an incoming battle made him impatient and restless. He was born to hold a sword in his hand.  
  
This night was no exception. He was too old to change. After a couple hours of restful sleep, he had opened his eyes, his mind perfectly clear, his brain alert, his chest constricting a little with excitement. Knowing from a long experience that there was no point of tossing and turning in his narrow bed, Barristan got up and donned his white armor once again, careful that the chainmail underneath did not hinder his movements, attentive to minimize the inevitable gaps bound to form around his joints. A good fighter knew how to look for the weakest point of a full plate armor: shoulder, elbow, hip, knee… Holding his sword in one hand and his helmet in the other, he had walked out his modest chamber in the Great Pyramid, silently closing the heavy wooden door behind him, trying not to disturb his young apprentices' rest.  
  
Then he resumed a decades-old routine.  
  
First, Barristan walked to the walls to observe the Volanteneencampment outside the city, verifying that no agitation betrayed unexpected preparations. After that, he strolled back to the houses that had been designed to shelter a reserve of arrows for the bowmen, water to fight the unavoidable fires, good and not so good shields, helmets, spears, swords . A hundred yards from the wall, not too far from the fighting, and hopefully not too close, other houses were to gather and treat the wounded. There, exhausted women and famished children prepared ointments and bandages without uttering a word. They did not need to. Fear was palpable in every street of the city.  
  
Meereen was ready, as ready as they would ever be under the circumstances.  
  
The coin had been tossed.  
  
 _Head_ _or tail._  
  
After so many battles and so much suffering during the past months, Meereen did not stand a chance, not a single one, and only luck would save them all. One look around the candlelit room was enough to notice that the Meereenese themselves did not have any illusion about the outcome of the battle. Fatalism was the common expression he could read on the faces hollowed by privation and sorrow. In this room, there was no slaves and masters anymore, just people united in the silent fear that the next morning might be the last they would ever witness. Barristan stepped further inside to check if enough water had been stocked in this house: once the first wounded would be gathered here, hasty evacuation would not be an option anymore if an ardent projectile hit the roof. In spite of his attempts not to disturb the people preparing the necessary supplies, the martial sound of his armor and the unavoidable clinging of his sword against the steel covering his hip and thigh attracted attention to him.  
  
Thin hands stopped to tear linen down and mix potions.  
  
Hollow eyes rose to watch him intently.  
  
And Barristan the Bold had to steel himself against the overwhelming looks of accusation aimed at him. They did not need to voice their thoughts.  
  
It was all the Westerosis' fault.  
  
Yet, beyond the accusation, there was also a form of despaired hope that was almost more unbearable than the silent _hostility._  
  
 _Save us._  
  
 _Finish the crusade you started, and save us._  
  
 _Finish the crusade you started, save what is left of us, and go away._   
  
When Barristan reached the training ground, those stares still haunted him, feeding his growing guilt. The slight hostility he had noticed should have made him question the solidity of the Queen's side, take measure to prevent any potential betrayal. Yet, he could not help but agree with the accusing eyes.  
  
 _It was all their fault_.  
  
Convinced of their Queen's just cause, deaf to Mormont's warnings – it had been so easy to dismiss a former slavers' opinion on the matter – they had brought nothing but desolation on the Meereenese, masters and slaves alike.  
  
Fire, blood, illness, innumerable enemies.  
  
This was not good. Letting doubts and regrets swallow his mind a couple of hours before the battle was useless. There was no point in looking back, the past could not be undone. Barristan had lost to Rhaegar at Harrenhal, and the prince had crowned Lyanna Stark, starting the fateful chain of events. He followed Queen Daenerys in her crusade. Unlike Mormont, he did not dare to defy her, even when he knew she made the worst decisions.  
  
If he could not change the past, he still could affect the future.  
  
Following his old habits, Barristan put down his white cloak and folded it with infinite precautions. Next to it, he put his helmet down. Finally, he walked to the center with slow measured steps, calming his breath, undoing the knot in his chest, chasing the demons away with each step.  
  
In the East, the sky was growing paler.  
  
Unconsciously, his finger had already closed on the handle of his sword, and the familiar sound of a sword being drawn from the scabbard felt reassuring to his ears.  
  
Barristan liked this sound, almost as much as the weight of a good sword in his hand.  
  
He set his feet apart, so that his stance was steady, closed his eyes to focus on the movements of his legs and arms and began his dance with an invisible enemy. His slashes and counter-slashes were quick, their strength enhanced by his footwork. Swordplay was a dance, truly, that involved the whole body, from the toe to the end of the sword. Beads of perspiration formed on his forehead, the muscles in his back and shoulders relaxed, the slight tension in his left arm vanished, his grip became firmer.  
  
 _Good._  
  
His rhythm was quicker now, his feet slid on the sandy ground, the amplitude of his slashes grew and his sword started to whistle in the night. By the Seven Gods, he loved this sound so much. Since his days as an impetuous squire, this had been the perfection he had wanted to achieve, the sound of a sword whistling in the air. He indulged his mind a few more slashes before sheathing his blade again.  
  
Only now, he noticed that around him, feet and wooden sticks danced in the air. An amused frown lit up Barristan's wrinkled face. He might be old enough to be called Ser Grandfather, but he was quite sure he had ordered his apprentices to get as much rest as possible. Apparently, his words had not been heard, or had been ignored.  
  
Irresistible warmth filled up his chest with fatherly pride. The former slaves he had chosen to train properly started to ignore orders and make their own choices. Silently, he observed the young men as they repeated with application the gestures he had taught them for the last months, engraving the sight in his mind, chasing the accusing eyes away.  
  
 _His boys were growing._


	20. The weight of the armor

  
In the West, the last remnants of the night had barely vanished. The Great Pyramid cast its long, imposing shadow on the city. Shouts of people and neighs of horses could be heard from the terrace of the queen's chamber. Carriages rolled along the streets with their cargo of weapons, tools and wood. The night patrols formed of Unsullied and Meereenese walked back to their barracks, replaced by troops of well-rested, and hopefully reliable, sellswords. Chamber pots were emptied. Babies cried for the milk that had dried in their mothers' breasts. Smell of cooking wafers rose from the Dothraki encampment.  
  
Meereen awoke, maybe for the last time.  
  
"My Queen, to avoid trouble, we should order the Dothraki to share some of their provisions today," Jorah mused as he covered the fresh bandages on his torso with his tunic. "The Meereenese are starving, and we cannot afford a hunger riot during the battle."  
  
"The Dothraki do not share, my bear," Daenerys whispered softly. "They take."  
  
Even if the only battle she would see today would be through Drogon's eyes, she had donned her painted vest, and she had let Irri braid her hair in the Dothraki fashion. Small bells accompanied her every movement.  
  
"True, but I would rather not have another front appear inside the walls of the city," he insisted, tying his belt before reaching for his light chainmail with a frown.  
  
The indulgent smile on Daenerys' face told him everything he needed to know; he was being stubborn again. The only thing was he did not know what side of his stubbornness elicited this reaction.  
  
"I already gave orders to Kô Pono while Missandei treated your wounds," she replied patiently.  
  
Jorah could not help but return her smile. Before his banishment, she would have reminded him he was only an advisor; she would have repeated that she was the Mother of Dragons and Breaker of Chains. He would have growled, barely containing his frustration.  
  
They would have clashed over their strategy again and again.  
  
"Good," he admitted, his voice muffled by his struggle with the chainmail.  
  
The smile had not disappeared from Daenerys' lips and even grew mischievous as purple eyes fixed on him intently.  
  
Jorah suppressed a shiver, unable to block the images the purple stare invoked in his still hazy mind.  
  
 _Her fingers tracing the skin not covered in bandages, light as a feather._  
  
 _Her hand cupping his branded cheek, so tenderly._  
  
 _Her lips kissing their way down his torso._  
  
The feeble protest had died on his own lips, silenced by her anguished words, the one she would not let anyone but him hear. "We might not have another chance, my bear."  
  
So he had let her touch him, caress him, study him, and he had returned the attention, as much as his body let him, not much. Mesmerized, he had watched her as she had grasped his good hand and led it between her legs. Awkward fumbling in the eve of a battle had never been on his mind in the rare times he had dared to hope his queen returned his feelings.  
  
 _A lazy encounter in a scalding scented bath._  
  
 _Urgent, feral coupling after a victory._  
  
 _Complete adoration following a passionate declaration worthy of the old tales._   
  
This was what he had envisioned in the Red Waste and in Qarth, what he had dreamt about as the silver-haired whore bounced on his lap. Yet, as Daenerys snuggled against him, careful to rest her head on the portion of his chest that had escaped Viserion's flames, he already knew that this most awkward moment would become a cherished memory well into his old age, if the gods let him survive the battle and reach this old age.  
  
And, wordlessly, unable to sleep anymore, they had waited for the sun to rise, at last.  
  
"Sit," she commanded softly, but not unkindly, bringing him back to the present and the battle approaching minute by minute.  
  
Jorah obeyed, and Daenerys raised an amused eyebrow at this uncommon display of respect and obedience. Kneeling before him, she began to lace his boots. Both of them knew he was still unable to bend and do this for himself, for his burnt skin was far too raw.  
  
"You have to remember one thing," he advised, trying to school as much as possible this paternalistic tone in his voice that used to make her violet eyes shine with anger and indignation. He had to accept she was the Mother of Dragons indeed, but the fact was that he remained a far more experienced warg. "You've established a pact with Drogon, between equals. You've not submitted him to your will."  
  
"I am his, and he is mine, I understand that," she answered curtly, only the way she tied his left boot a bit too tight betraying a surge of annoyance.  
  
"This means you can't make him go where he doesn't want."  
  
"Don't worry my bear," she whispered, standing up and reaching for his gauntlets. "Drogon didn't let me fly anywhere near the city until you managed to destroy the horn."  
  
Carefully, she covered his burnt hand with the leather, her violet eyes studying his face, visibly in search for the merest expression of pain.  
  
"One more thing: if Drogon is injured, wake up. Let him go and wake up." His good hand covered the small ones working on the laces of the gauntlet, attracting her attention to what he was saying. "If you leave him be, his instincts will lead him to safety. If you stay, your mind won't be able to bear the feeling of pain. Worse, if you force him whereas he wishes to flee, he will resent you, terribly."  
  
"Will he devour me, my bear?" she japed, and for a second, they were back on the road from Astapor to Yunkai, from Yunkai to Meereen.  
  
"Not impossible," he replied softly, chasing away the image of a dismembered man he and Maege had found in the middle of the deep forests of Bear Island so many years ago.  
  
 _Take a good look, Jorah. Karel was a powerful warg but a mean one, and he paid for that. Now we have to kill the bear before the beast starts to like human flesh too much._  
  
 _What a waste._  
  
The second gauntlet covered his good hand now, and his fingers could not feel her skin anymore. A soft hand cupped his branded cheek, silently inviting him to stand to his feet.  
  
On tiptoe, she put the shoulder belt that held his sword in place. As she did so, Jorah could smell the faint fragrance of her scented bath in her hair.  
  
"I understand, Jorah," she assured softly as she closed the belt around his waist, frowning lightly when she noticed how much leather hanged from the buckle. "And you don't do anything foolish while I'm dreaming."  
  
The violet eyes she fixed on him wanted to be commanding, but they only managed to plead.  
  
Jorah walked to the terrace, filling his lungs with the morning air, fixing his eyes on the Volantene army, ignoring the metallic taste that suddenly filled his mouth, the ache in his sword hand.  
  
"I won't, Daenerys."  
  
By the Old gods and the New, he prayed he could keep his promise.


	21. The weight of a revolt

Here's a new chapter in the Wanderer series. It's the last chapter before the battle of Meereen. Thank you for your patience and support, and a double thank you to my partner in crime who is struggling through SWH26 to produce a wonderful chapter!

**THE WEIGHT OF A REVOLT**

_A foreign, silent city bathed in silvery moonlight._

_The expression of fearful awe on his men's faces._

_The feeling of the wind on his face._

_A tamed monster carrying him higher and higher and higher._

_For a few seconds, Victarion Greyjoy felt dizzy with exhilaration and hope to which he had never dared to give form. Through the thick leather of his boots, he could sense the warmth radiating from the white dragon's flanks, the smooth ripple of the muscles as the beast moved its wings lazily in the night._

This _was pure, unadulterated power, power such as he had never known before in his life._

_Victarion had played and won. He had sailed across the world and gained the power that would help him to overthrow Euron and restore the Seastone Chair of the Ironborn back to its old glory._

_With the dragon, he would make Euron pay for his sins._

_With the dragon, he would surpass Balon's fruitless, senseless efforts._

_The banners of the Ironborn would fly from the towers of Harrenhal once more, the Riverlands would go back to their rightful masters, the lords of the sea._

We do not sow.

_The Ironborn would abandon the weak laws from the continent and take what they needed where and when the wanted._

_When you became one of the few men able to ride a dragon, everything was possible. The stern, obedient, unimaginative captain felt his chest swell with pride as a long restrained cry of triumph built in his throat._

_When the dragon started to jerk, the cry of triumph morphed into pure terror as he fell to the ground like a vulgar bag of sand._

Victarion woke up with a start.

Like every morning, his throat ached from the moans and shouts he had uttered in his sleep. His pillow was drenched with sweat. His arms were quivering, from the residual fear and from the effort needed to stay upright without the help of his lower body.

His legs were dead.

Like every morning, he had soiled himself like an old man, he could smell it. Was this shameful degradation the price to pay for a brief moment of revolt against the rightful king of the Iron Islands, the one who had been chosen by the revered Kingsmoot? Or was it the price for trying to tame and ride a beast that was not his to control in the first place?

Which revolt did he pay at the cost of his dead legs?

A light rasp on the door of his cabin warned him, so that he could brace himself against a daily humiliation. Victarion sighed heavily and closed his eyes. He would open them again when the door would close once again. He hated nothing more than the moment when the two former slaves who used to share his bed on the way to Meereen walked into his quarters to clean his bed.

He feared nothing more than see pity in the women's eyes.

As he let himself taken care of, his mind wandered to the strategy he had accepted to associate the Iron Fleet with. As expected, the Volantene fleet, as numerous and powerful as it was, was far too confident and Victarion's ships had managed to sail through the enemy's lines in the dark of the night, little by little. Now, they had regrouped farther West, and had begun their vigil. If everything went as planned, their wait would be short, and the signal ordering them to attack the Volantenes would come soon. However, Victarion knew better than many people that not everything went as planned, especially when a dragon was involved. Should the battle linger, the Ironborn had two missions.

Harassing the Volantene reinforcements, a strategy they were most familiar with.

Supplying the city, an idea his crew did not like that much.

To be honest, being reduced to the role of mere smugglers was not to Victarion's taste either, but they had sworn an oath on the Drowned God, and he would make sure his men would keep their word.

If they keep their word, the Dragon Queen would keep hers, and she would accomplish what Victarion had shown himself unable to do in his whole life, resist his older brother for the sake of his people. In spite of himself, in spite of the humiliation of guessing that feminine hands were tending to his lower body, undressing him, cleaning his genitals and tighs, dressing him again, Victarion let a smile form on his lips, fully conscious of the irony of his latest decision.

Had he accepted his niece's plan and recognized her as Balon's rightful heir, he would have escaped such a shameful destiny.

He would have not been obliged to ask for another woman's help, to put the future of the Iron Islands into a wench's hands.

The only satisfaction Victarion could take from this wretched situation was the certainty that Euron would discover soon enough that the Dragon Queen was so much more than a token wife with magical beasts. His main regret was that he would never see the expression in Euron's only eye when his brother would realize his mistake. Victarion would never see the end of the vengeance he had coveted so much in the depths of his cowardly heart.

Trusting strangers with one's vengeance was a big, frightening leap of faith. However, when you were little more than a dead weight who soiled himself at night, who could not pay the Iron price anymore, there were not many choices left.

Little by little, fresh linen replaced soiled ones, new breeches covered his useless legs, the foul smell of the night disappeared. The distinct sound of a stool dragged near his bed indicated that the customary dried meat and beer had been delivered so that he could break his fast at last.

"Is there anything else you need, my Lord?"

_My legs._

"Parchment and ink."

Soon enough, a raven would come from Meereen. If he wanted to ensure his vengeance, there was something he needed to do, now.

To be honest, Victarion could not be sure that the Dragon Queen would keep her word. After all, because of the Ironborn's actions, she had lost one of her precious dragons. Because of them, she had almost lost her most faithful adviser as well. Had Jorah Mormont not returned from the dead, scorched and wounded as he was, the Queen would have surely fed them to her remaining beasts. Fortunately, the Wild Bear had proved himself a very difficult man to kill, once more, and Queen Daenerys had decided to be forgiving, for now. As long as the Ironborn were useful for her purposes, they would be alright.

However, what would happen once they reached Westeros? Victarion needed to make sure someone, anyone would make Euron pay.

Once the women placed the paper and ink on an improved on his tighs, Victarion took a deep breath, and started to write.

_I, Victarion Greyjoy, third son of Quellon Greyjoy, lord of the Iron Islands, Captain of the Iron Fleet by decree of Balon IX, king of the Iron Islands…_

Surprisingly enough, his hand was firm.

_I recognize Queen Daenerys, of House Targaryen, as the legitimate sovereign to the Seven Kingdoms, and swear fealty to her in the name of the Iron Fleet._

The discussions during the past days had been vehement, but the stubborn Ironborn had agreed to his idea. An early alliance to the Dragon Queen would give them room to negotiate their future in the new-formed realm. They could not afford to lose a war once again.

… _shall I die in battle, I give the Iron Fleet to the joint command of my faithful second and Queen Daenerys' man of choice._

The Dragon Queen, for all her hard words and cruel threats, was an honorable woman and would ensure the accomplishment of a dead man's will.

For the first time in days, Victarion felt at peace when he sealed his will. Enough with useless politics, now he would be able to focus on what he did best.

War.

His last one.


	22. Fire and blood

_There was no such thing as an easy battle._

How many times had Barristan repeated these words over the years?

More often than not, though, only to himself, thinking them regretfully as he witnessed overconfident advisers tell their rulers - Aerys, Rhaegar, Robert - that the battle would be over soon, and gloriously so. Mayhaps he should have voiced his concerns. Had he spoken out loud, perhaps they would have not rushed into Robert's trap at the Trident and Rhaegar would be still alive.

On the rare occasions he had uttered these words, it was only to be rebuffed by a young and foolish Jaime Lannister or many other summer children he had met over his years as a Kingsguard in King's Landing or here, in the depths of the Great Pyramid of Meereen.

"First line, kneel, notch. Second line, step, bend, aim, shoot!" Like Barristan, Naharis was perched on the wall and his voice resounded loud and clear from the other side of the city gate.

How many times had Daario Naharis mocked _Ser Grandfather_ 's caution?

Yet the sell-sword had swallowed his pride and ambition and accepted to command and coordinate the heteroclite group of archers composed by Meereenese, mercenaries and Unsullied. Without his sword hand, and feverish as he was, there was little more he could do, and, obviously, the Imp had found the words to appeal to the Tyroshi's sense of survival in the same way the Queen's words and beauty had in the eve of the battle against the Yunkai.

"Aim, shoot!"

Barristan had to admit that this very little was most useful. Had he not been so foolish and ambitious, Naharis would have made a great captain. Following their leader's rhythmic command, the archers made arrows rain on the Volantene's army. As long as they had arrows to shoot, everything would alright.

Before the city gate, the Unsullied lead by Grey Worm had formed an impassable human wall. Pressed forward by the dragons' assault on the Volantene rear lines, unable to retreat or even step back, the first lines had no other solution than try and break the Unsullied lines, in vain. It was the battle of Qohor once again, except that the stubborn and fruitless assaults were caused by the fear of dragonfire and not sheer stupidity.

From his own position on the wall, just above the city gates, Barristan commanded the defense of Meereen, and observed with satisfaction how well the Queen's host performed their task, in spite of the exhaustion and the lack of cohesion. As Drogon and Rhaegal flew closer and closer to the enemy lines, leaving only ashes and molten steel and laments in their wake, Barristan only began to understand how much the Westerosi might have been frightened by Aegon's and his sisters' dragons, to the point of bending the knee without even a fight, as the last King in the North did. Behind the gates, horses neighed and stamped, guttural shouts resounded, arakhs were drawn.

The Dothraki were getting impatient.

For the third time, Barristan denied them the order to charge, and they complied unexpectedly, though not without railing against the _cowardly man covered in steel_. The Queensguard did not understand many Dothraki words, but these ones – translated by Ser Jorah on the road to Meereen – he knew and recognized very well.

_There was no such thing as an easy victory._

Barristan would be damned if he jeopardized an improbable, unthinkable victory by giving premature orders. Once released to their fury, the Dothraki would not be of any use for strategy anymore.

Further inside the city, silent Unsullied blocked the area around the main street. Archers were crouched on the roofs, hidden under straw and planks, waiting for their clue. Barristan shared a look with the Imp who stood by his side and silently considered the battle with his mismatched eyes. The trap was in place, and, hopefully, they would not need to test its efficiency.

Assault after assault, the dragons become bolder and attacked the Volantene camp, creating great havoc. For the first time since the beginning of the battle, Barristan let a mirthless smile form on his lips. Now was the time. He turned around to finally give the order to charge but was stopped by the Imp's imperious gesture.

"Not yet, Ser Barristan."

Unexpectedly, Tyrion Lannister's expression turned into a worried frown as he motioned to the Volantene camp. Out there, in spite of the dragons' assault, the disorganization was only momentary and the Volantene troops gathered once more, protecting their remaining archers. Soldiers ran to the horns, who were so frighteningly similar to the one brought by the Ironborn.

And a strident sound pierced Barristan's ears. By his side, the Imp covered his owns. On the other side on the city gate, Naharis could only cover one and crouched in pain. The Volantene archers shot arrows at the dragons who jerked in the air, as if in pain as well, even if none of the arrows actually hit them. The Queensguard had to close his eyes against the headache and the constriction in his chest caused by the high-pitched sound. For a second, he feared that the nightmare from the night when Greyjoy fell from an enraged dragon would become reality again.

For a second, he was afraid to open them again and see that the dragons had turned against them.

"The gods be damned! The beasts are fleeing!" Naharis' voice had turned into a strangled growl.

Barristan opened his eyes at last, his breath still irregular from the pain and the fear. In this moment, he did not deserve his famous nickname at all.

"Arrows! Bring more arrows!" The Imps shouted down the wall, to the men who supplied the archers. "Light the fires!"

Without the help of the dragons, they had to rely on old tactics now.

Before the city gates, Grey Worm had some difficulty maintaining the lines against the renewed assaults. Barristan frowned. The Unsullied would not hold much longer now. They were too exhausted by the previous fighting. Many were wounded, barely recovering, famished even. There was a limit to what you could expect from any man, even an Unsullied.

Seven Hells! Obviously, there was a limit to what one could expect from a dragon!

"First line, bend, aim, shoot!"

Naharis' commands were quicker now, and the archers started to lose their efficiency and accuracy.

"Red Flea!" Barristan barked. If the Dothraki had to be used, it was now or never. The Queensguard never finished his sentence, though, as ominous trumpeting resounded in the plain.

_Elephants ._


	23. Ancient knowledge

_Here I stand._

His whole body ached; still Jorah kept on standing firmly on his feet, his back to the closed door, his hand on the sword Daenerys had given him.

In spite of his growing exhaustion, Jorah let a grin briefly form on his lips before they twisted into a grimace. The fire and the salt and the sun had burnt what seemed to be every inch of skin on his body. Every movement cost him, even the simplest as grinning or wrapping his fingers around a cup of water. Yet, here he was, guarding her dreams, ready to repel any intruder, fighting the irrational urge to join the battle.

For the last weeks, since the day he had found Daenerys lost in the Dothraki Sea, he had felt it.

Winter was upon them.

He could feel it in the way his warging powers had suddenly grown, allowing him to control more beasts at one time than he ever had in the past.

He could taste it in the way he wanted to ignore his injuries and run to the wall. Draw his sword.

Winter was upon them, and in winter, he awoke to his inner beast.

_Berserker. That was what they called his kind on Bear Island._

_Most of them men, some women._

_These were the ones mad enough to sail north and hunt giant whales on ridiculously small crafts._

_And, he was one of them._

Once again, Jorah closed his finger around the handle of his sword. Never before this day he had wished he had not left Longclaw behind him. At the time, he had not thought ahead, he had not envisioned the reality of his gesture, of his exile. How would he tame his inner beast without the ancestral sword in his hand?

Quietly, he left his post by the door and strode to the bed where Daenerys had settled before warging into Drogon. Her breathing seemed regular, no anxious twitching deformed her features. In her sleep, she had curled up in a ball, in a way only permitted by young and supple joints. Buried in the pillows, she looked like a lazy, peaceful cat, an impression reinforced by the soft purring that left her throat. Satisfied with the scene, Jorah went to the terrace to assess the situation. For the moment, the battle unfolded exactly as they had planned. The Volantene armies were perfectly contained by the Unsullied. The Dothraki were ready to charge. Dark wings spread chaos in their wake, followed by the green dragon.

Even from his position high on the terrace, the acrid smells of smoke, ash, and blood filled his nostrils. The agonizing cries from the Volantene camp below rang as clearly in his ears ad if he were on the wall near the fighting. In some ways, it was difficult to imagine that such chaos and destruction was caused by the seemingly innocent form curled upon her silky cushions.

And yet…

Soon, the Dothraki would charge, Greyjoy would shatter the invading fleet, and the battle would be over, hopefully. Soon, the road back to Westeros would not seem such an impossible dream. Maybe, he would even be able to close his fingers around Longclaw's handle before he had to confront his inner beast. Maybe they would be back before the long winter covered Westeros and brought many nightmares from beyond the Wall. Maybe they would get there _in time._ Reassured by the evolution of the battle, Jorah turned around and walked back to the chamber, intent on resuming his quiet vigil.

He had barely turned his back when a strident, hissing sound pierced his ears. At the same time, an painful cry resounded in the chamber. High in the sky, Rhaegal jerked in his flight, as if in pain, and fled to the Dothraki Sea, away from the battle and the hissing arrows and strident horns, soon followed by Drogon.

Oblivious to his injuries, Jorah ran to the bed.

Daenerys was still curled up, but in pain this time. She clutched her ears with trembling hands, her fingers tried to dig holes in her skull. Her violet eyes were wide open but saw nothing. The tremors ran along her whole body, from head to toe. At her side, Missandei looked powerless, a cool damp piece of linen in her hand. Forgetting his station, he knelt on the bed, gripped the queen's small forearms with his stronger hands. In her state, even his burnt hand was stronger. Gently, but firmly, he pulled her hand away, calling her, barking almost.

"Look at me! Just look at me! The pain isn't real, you're not injured! It's over, you're awake now!"

Violet eyes looked up at him but did not really see him. For a second, he feared he might have to slap her in front of Missandei to shake her out of nightmare.

"Daenerys!" he boomed, finding his most commanding voice back, the one he had rarely used since his exile. "Look at me! Now!"

A glimmer of recognition shone weakly in her eyes as fear vanished away.

"The sound…" she whispered, still incoherent. "Unbearable… Drogon…"

"He's fled, he's safe, and Rhaegal as well," he reassured her.

"The horns…"

Unable to contain his anger anymore, Jorah stood up and walked to the terrace once more.

_Bloody fool!_

He should have known. He should have guessed.

_Fool!_

The main Volantene forces had made their move, and the Unsullied had to retreat and regroup before the city gates. Volantis had the advantage.

_Fool!_

Volantis was the heir of Old Valyria, of their ambition and their knowledge. In Westeros, Aegon the Conqueror had sown chaos and fear and disaster on continent which ignored everything about dragons. In Westeros, the Targaryens were unique.

In Valyria, they only were a single family among others. If Euron had managed to get his damn hands on a magical horn, it was only natural that other ancient knowledge had been transmitted through the centuries.

_Blood, bloody fool!_

He should have guessed. With a heavy heart, he turned to the chamber once more. There, a trembling Daenerys let Missandei treat her, soothe her.

Jorah shook his head. They had depended on her too much. He had hidden behind her too much. Unconsciously, he closed his fingers around the handle of his sword.

"Jorah…"

Violet eyes fixed on him, silently reminding him of his promise.

He closed his eyes regretfully and, containing a cry of pain as he forced his limbs into motion, he ran to the city gate.

Once again, he had betrayed his Queen's trust.

Now, he was forced to come back alive to seek her pardon one more time.

It was simple, put like that.


End file.
